y--^        i»    •     -«•- 


or  CAUF.  UBRAUY.  LOS  A 

( 


•  £  ,  M  4  t-f^r      bJ  o  If 


NEW  YORK 
HURST    &    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


"THE   DUCHESS" 

AUTHOR  OF  "PHYW.IS,"  "PORTIA,"  ETC. 


JICK'S  SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER  1. 

A  DYING  sunset,  a  sloping  lawn,  a  rushing,  tumbling 
atream,  a  clump  of  giant  firs  to  the  right,  odorous  garden 
sweets  from  the  left,  two  forms  in  God's  own  likeness, 
and  a  roaring,  raging  ocean  down  below  —  all  seem 
blended  into  one  artistic  whole,  calm,  almost  motionless, 
save  for  the  quarreling  of  the  turbulent  river  and  the 
faint  dashing  of  the  waves  against  the  rocks  upon  the 
barren  coast. 

Slowly  the  early  summer  sun  is  setting.  Pale,  with  sad 
regret,  ho  quits  the  lovely  earth,  and  prepares  to  lay  down 
his  arms  before  night's  queen.  Already  Dian's  crescent 
marks  the  sky  —  faint  yet,  because  so  far  away,  but  march- 
ing ever  nearer,  nearer,  glad  with  the  certainty  of  victory 
assured;  the  happy  wind,  that  all  day  long  has  rioted  in 
bower  and  "  pleasaunce  faire,"  has  gone  to  rest;  a  languor- 
ous stillness  lies  on  all  around;  the  air  is  heavy  with  the 
breatli  of  drowsy  flowers. 

"Ah,  this  dear  England!"  says  a  young  sweet  voice,  in 
a  tone  of  quick  delight.  "Though  I  have  known  it  only 
for  a  little  week,  still  it  seems  to  me  that  it,  and  no  other 
land,  means  home!" 

The  voice  belongs  to  the  prettiest  lips  in  the  world,  the 
lips  belong  to  the  prettiest  girl,  a  slender  thing  of  about 
•eventeen,  with  a  subtle  charm  about  her  difficult  to  de- 
scribe, and  with  a  face  most  sweet,  most  fair,  made  up 
"  of  every  creature's  best;"  a  clear  broad  brow,  clear  eyes 
are  hers,  and  a  tender  loving  mouth  on  which  were  writ 
in  plainest  print  the  gentle  workings  of  the  innocent  soul 
within. 

She  is  lying  back  in  her  garden-chair,  with  a  white 
shawl  thrown  across  kw  whiter  fcown.  There  is  a  little 


2130482 


4  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

touch  of  languor  about  her  idle  hands  and  her  entire  pose, 
a  something  indefinite  to  fear  in  the  excessive  fairness  of 
her  rose-leaf  skin;  there  is  indeed  a  spirituality  about  her 
every  glance  and  action,  an  eagerness,  a  brightness  too 
great  for  her  fragile  frame.  Her  companion,  a  tall,  arig- 
tocratic-looking  woman  of  about  forty-five,  glances  at  her 
with  some  anxiety. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  happy  here,"  she  says,  with  a  little 
sigh. 

"  Happy!  Oh,  that  is  nothing!  I  am  always  happy. 
And  what  a  sigh,  auntie!  I  believe  you  are  still  pining 
for  your  mosquitoes  and  your  garlic." 

The  elder  woman  smiles  gently,  and  pats  the  small 
hand  extended  to  her.  That  she  is  slave  to  the  owner 
of  that  little  hand  one  can  see  at  the  first  glance.  Though 
ghe  is  a  stern-featured  woman,  with  a  face  full  of  possible 
reservations  and  certain  power,  and  the  lines  and  marks 
of  long  years  replete  with  unutterable  grief,  there  are 
signs  too  upon  it  of  natural  tendencies  bravely  repressed, 
and  of  self-abnegation  that  has  yet  failed  to  imbitter  the 
strong  courageous  spirit  within.  One  firm  to  bear  and 
swift  to  read  and  sure  to  comprehend,  she  sits  here  calm- 
ly with  the  girl's  hand  in  hers,  as  though  no  bitterness 
from  out  the  cruel  past  had  blanched  her  soft  dark  hair. 

"I  wonder  what  our  neighbors  will  be  like?"  says  the 
young  girl  vivaciously.  "  Do  you  know  any  of  them?" 

"Only  by  hearsay.  Your  grand-uncle,  during  his  last 
illness  in  Florence— where,  as  you  know,  I  went  to  attend 
him — used  to  speak  of  some  of  them  at  times,  but  only 
casually,  and  without  interest.  At  Kingmore — which,  I 
take  it,  must  be  about  three  miles  from  this— Sir  George 
and  Lady  Bouverie  live  with  their  two  sons,  and  some- 
where close  to  them  the  Ponsonbys  of  the  Hollows;  but 
this  is  only  guesswork.  I  hardly  know  where  they  live, 
or  if  they  live  at  all." 

"Are  the  Ponsonbys  a  large  family?" 

"  No — only  father  and  daughter.  Mr.  Ponsonby  is 
brother  to  Lady  Bouverie,  and  comes  of  a  good  old  family, 
but  a  poor  one.  He  is  a  great  scholar,  I  believe,  but 
rather  dreamy,  and  a  book-worm;  he  reads  with  young 
men  for  the  army,  or  something  like  that.  You  see  I  am 
p.  Httle  obscure  on  all  points." 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  a  daughter,  at  least;  I  have  so  sel< 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  § 

dom  had  girl  friends.     I  wish,  too,  Lady  Bouverie's  fam- 
ily meant  one  son  and  one  daughter;  don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,  my  dear.  Experience  has  taught 
me  that  young  men  are  preferable  to  young  women — one 
joung  woman  " — fondly — "excepted." 

"  Ah,  that  is  because  you  are  such  a  sad  flirt!"  says  the 
girl  gayly,  at  which  they  both  laugh  without  reservation 
as  at  some  very  superior  joke. 

"Alas  for  one's  secret  sins;  they  are  sure  to  find  one 
out!"  murmurs  the  elder  woman  lightly,  running  her  fin- 
gers with  a  lingering  fondness  through  the  soft  short 
rings  of  sunny  hair  that  cover  the  pretty  head  so  near  to 
her. 

A  little  laugh  breaks  from  Dolores.  She  springs  to  her 
feet,  and,  throwing  from  her  the  shawl  that  has  shielded 
her  from  the  evening  breeze,  as  though  somewhat  impa- 
tient of  the  care  lavished  upon  her,  runs  eagerly  to  the 
garden  on  her  left.  Here  flowers  throng  her  path.  Hav- 
ing made  a  delicate  raid  upon  them,  she  returns  again  to 
her  aunt's  side,  and  flings  herself  upon  the  grass  at  her 
feet.  Her  invasion  of  the  summer  garden  has  borne  fruit. 
She  now  lies  with  her  head  well  thrown  back  against  Miss 
Maturin's  knee,  admiring,  with  leisurely  grace,  the  tall 
white  lily  in  her  hand,  the  sweet  result  of  her  assault. 

"  Tell  me,  auntie,"  she  says  presently,  raising  her  eyes 
to  the  pale  face  above  her — "  how  long  is  it  since  my 
grand-uncle  died?" 

"Just  seventeen  years." 

"Why,  his  death  is  as  old  as  my  birth!" 

"Yes." 

As  though  a  shadow  from  out  the  long  buried  past  has 
come  to  her  with  the  girl's  words,  Miss  Maturin  starts, 
and  a  quick  frown  falls  upon  her  brow. 

"Seventeen  years!"  says  Dolores.  "What  a  long,  long; 
time!  And  yet,  though  he  left  you  this  place,  you  never 
once  came  to  see  it.  How  unkind  of  you  to  hide  its  beau- 
ties from  me  until  now!  Why  did  you  not  come  home 
sooner,  and  bring  me  with  you?" 

The  shadow  deepens  on  the  elder  woman's  face. 

"Perhaps  I  had  a  fancy  for  traveling,"  she  says, 
slowly. 

"  A  lasting  one..  urMlp't  it?    But  I  wonder  you  could 


6  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

keep  away  from  this  place,  knowing  that  it  was  so  beau- 
tiful." 

"I  didn't  know  it;  I  never  saw  it  until  now." 

"  Not  when  your  uncle  was  alive?" 

"  There  is  nothing  so  wonderful  in  that.  He  waa 
always  abroad,  and  we  had  our  own  place  up  in  the 
North." 

"As  nice  a  home  as  this?" 

"  No.  A  bleak,  cold,  barren  place — a  hateful  placef 
I  never  wish  to  see  or  hear  of  it  again." 

There  is  suppressed  horror  in  her  tone. 

*•  Why?  Did  my  mother  die  there?"  questions  the 
girl  softly. 

"  No."  Miss  Maturin,  getting  up  somewhat  abruptly, 
moves  so  as  to  stand  behind  Dolores'  chair,  and  leans 
upon  the  back  of  it.  "  Look  at  that  dying  sunset,"  she 
gays,  quickly.  "  Could  anything  be  more  lovely?  Mark 
the  clear  streaks  of  orange  and  crimson — such  straight 
pure  bars,  such — " 

"It  is  as  perfect  as  all  this  perfect  scene;  I  feel  I  can 
never  tire  of  it.  But  where  did  my  mother  die,  auntie? 
Was  it  abroad?" 

"  Yes,  abroad.  Keep  that  shawl  more  closely  round 
your  chest,  Dolores;  there  is  often  a  chill  in  these  sum- 
mer winds.  What  a  pretty  little  shawl  it  is!  Where  was 
it  we  bought  it?  Geneva — eh?" 

"No — Lucerne.  Have  you  forgotten?  It  was  on  just 
such  an  evening  as  this  we  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  it. 
But  where  abroad  did  my  mother  die,  auntie?  In 
France?" 

"  Yes,  in  France."  Miss  Maturin  looks  round  her  a 
little  helplessly,  as  if  distressed.  "  About  your  grand- 
uncle,"  she  says  rapidly — "you  were  asking  me  about, 
him  just  now,  were  you  not?  Such  an  eccentric  old  man 
as  he  was,  but  not  altogether  unlovable.  He  had  his 
heart  set  on  Italy,  though  why  none  of  us  knew.  He 
had  no  kin  there,  no  friend,  no  love,  and  no  special  desire 
for  art  that  I  could  see;  yet  he  declined  to  be  happy  out 
of  Florence.  When  dying,  his  greatest  consolation  was 
in  the  thought  that  his  bones  would  lie  there  forever." 

"I  can  understand  him,"  says  the  girl  dreamily.  "To 
lie  forever  at  rest  in  stately  Florence  would  have  its 
charm;  but,  to  me.  to  clituu  such  tt  land  as  this}  near  the 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  7 

waving  corn  and  the  scented  flowers,  with  the  cool  night- 
wind  sighing  above  my  grave,  would  be  a  greater  happi- 
ness." 

"  Better  live  in  such  a  land,"  says  Miss  Maturin  hastily. 
"  And  is  this  an  evening  on  which  to  talk  of  death  or  the 
grave?" 

"  You  are  right.  Let  us  go  back,  then,  to  our  original 
topic,"  acquiesces  the  girl  gayly,  with  unconscious  cruelty. 
"Tell  me  about  my  mother.  But  come  round  here  to 
me  first,  Lallie;  I  cannot  see  your  face  there." 

Miss  Maturin,  after  a  faint  hesitation,  going  back  to 
her  seat,  turni  her  face  to  her  niece  with  a  straight  but 
rather  forced  gaze. 

"Why  not  rather  talk  about  our  coming  life  here?" 
she  says. 

"To-morrow — any  other  time  will  do  for  that;  but  now 
I  want  to  know  something  real  of  my  mother.  All  vou 
have  yet  told  me  is  so  little,  so  vague,  so  shadowy.  But 
to-day,  when  we  have  come  to  her  own  land,  the  longing 
is  strong  upon  me  to  know  more  of  her.  There  must  be 
something  in  the  air  to-night  which  compels  me  to  think 
of  her." 

"  There  is  so  little  to  tell,"  says  Miss  Maturin.  Her 
voice  has  lost  its  kindly  ring,  and  now  sounds  constrained 
and  harsh.  "A  young  life  cut  short  in  its  nineteenth 
year — what  should  there  be  of  any  moment  in  it?" 

"Tell  me,"  says  the  girl,  leaning  toward  her,  the  soft 
wind  roughening  her  pretty  short  hair  as  she  moves, 
"  was  her  marriage  a  happy  one?  Was  it " — leaning  even 
closer  to  her,  the  better  to  watch  her  face,  in  glad 
expectation  of  her  answer — "a  love  marriage?" 

But  no  answer  comes  to  her.  A  deadly  silence  seems 
to  have  enveloped  Miss  Maturin.  It  lasts  for  quite  a 
minute — a  long  time  when  two  large  gray  eyes  are  watch- 
ing one  in  puzzled  surprise.  At  length,  by  a  supreme 
effort,  she  breaks  it. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  she  says  coldly.  "I  was  not  with 
her  at  the  time;  I  was  in  Italy  with  my  uncle.  You  have 
surely  forgotten?" 

"  But  you  saw  her  afterward,  when  you  took  me — a 
little  baby — from  her  arms?" 

"From  her  dying  arms — yes;  but  that  wag  no  time  for 
confidences,  or  thoughts  of  worldlv  love." 


8  DICK'S    8WEETHEAE1. 

"]So  tru«  love  can  be  worldly,"  says  the  girl  absently; 
then,  with  a  little  playful  laugh,  "  but  that  I  know  you 
would  not  dare  do  it,"  she  says,  smoothing  lightly  the 
hand  that  lies  in  hers,  "  I  should  say  you  were  trying  not 
to  answer  me." 

"  Why  should  I  do  tkat?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  perhaps — why  will  you  never  speak  of 
my  mother  to  me,  auntie?  Is  it — is  it  because  you  did 
.not  love  her?" 

V  " Perhaps  it  is  because  I  loved  her  too  well!"  returns 
Miss  Maturin,  an  ashen  tint  overspreading  her  face.  She 
shrinks  as  she  says  it,  and,  stooping,  presses  upon  the 
girl's  slender  fingers  a  tremulous  caress. 

A  sudden  flood  of  color  springs  into  Dolores'  cheeks, 
her  lips  quiver. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  whispers,  slipping  one  arm  round 
her  aunt's  neck.  "I  was  cruel  to  you?  It  hurts  you,  I 
can  now  see,  to  speak  of  her!  How  could  I  urge  you  so? 
Our  dead  are  always  so  precious,  and  I — " 

"  It  is  nothing.  Do  not  distress  yourself  about  it.  It 
is  over  already.  But  you  are  right,  child  " — with  a  visi- 
ble effort — "  it  does  hurt  me  to  speak  of — your  mother! " 

"And  my  father?" — timidly. 

"  All  are  dead — all  gone,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  in  a 
clear  cold  voice.  "  Let  us  not  bring  them  to  life  again. 
Let  the  past  lie.  The  present  only  is  our  own;  let  us  be 
content  with  it.  Beloved  child  " — with  a  sudden  excite- 
ment—  "think  of  the  glorious  sunset,  the  sky,  the  sea, 
the  flowers,  all  that  you  tell  me  you  love,  but  never  of  the 
years  gone  by ! " 

"  Dearest,  I  will  think  of  nothing  that  can  cause  you 
pain;  and  here,  in  this  happy  England,  you  will  forget 
your  early  griefs — with  me  to  love  you;  is  it  not  so?  You 
will  stay  here,  auntie?  You  will  not  want  to  wander 
again?" 

"  I  hope  not" — very  quietly;  but  some  piercing  thought 
disturbs  the  treacherous  calm.  "  I  hope,"  she  says  again 
suddenly,  with  vainly  chidden  passion,  "  that  nothing 
will  ever  happen  to  drive  us  from  this  place  of  refuge." 

"Why,  auntie,  how  strangely  you  say  that!"  says  the 
girl.  "What  is  it,  then?" — softly,  with  the  sweetest 
anxiety. 

'Mothing,  childl    Nothing,  my  beloved  one!    Bat, 


DICKVS    SWEETHEART.  9 

when  one  has  suffered  much,  one  has  doubts  even  in  one's 
happiest  hours." 

"  Must  all  suffer?"  asks  Dolores  seriously,  her  eyes  full 
of  pitying  wonder,  not  so  much  for  herself,  perhaps,  as 
for  the  world  at  large. 

"  Nay,  not  all.  Some  are  more  fortunate  than  others — 
yet  all  must  feel  the  knife.  To  some  it  is  blunt,  to  some 
sharp  and  poisoned  as  a  serpent's  fang.  Many  have  seem- 
ingly prosperous  lives;  but  there  is  always  death,  my 
Darling — the  most  prosperous  cannot  conquer  that  !  Alas, 
what  a  bird  of  ill  omen  I  am  to  my  own  bright  bonny 
bird!  But  you  would  have  me  speak  ;  and,  after  all, 
sweetheart,  there  is  only  one  grief  that  can  quite  rend  the 
heart  in  twain." 

"And  that  ?"  The  beautiful  childish  lips  are  parted, 
the  starry  eyes  are  opened  wide. 

"Is  dishonor!  But  the  very  breath  of  it  must  not 
come  nigh  you.  It  cannot — it  shall  not — after  all  these 
years! "  she  exclaims  fiercely,  but  so  low  that  her  last 
words  do  not  reach  Dolores'  ears. 

"  Dishonor  ?  Ah,  yes,  that  is  what  would  touch  one," 
she  said,  thoughtfully. 

"  It  shall  not  toucn  you." 

"No — no,  of  course  not;  and  yet" — slipping  from  her 
chair  down  upon  her  knees,  and  casting  her  pretty  half- 
naked  arm  across  Miss  Maturin's  lap — "  you  speak  " — 
glancing  at  her  wistfully — "  as  if  it  had  come  near  you; 
and  how  could  it,  without  touching  me?" 

"I  was  but  imagining  a  case.  Tut,  child!" — with  a 
swift  frown.  "  Must  one  never  converse  except  of  per- 
sonalities? Once  in  a  way  perforce  one  wanders  afield. 
And,  as  for  suffering  of  any  sort,  what  has  it  to  do  with 
you  while  your  old  aunt  is  here  to  protect  you  ?  Come — • 
forget  this  idle  conjecturing  ;  let  us  rather  think  and  plan 
for  a  happy  morrow  that  shall  be  but  the  commencement 
of  many  happier  ones." 

CHAPTEE  II. 

"  I  THINK  our  new  neighbors  are  likely  to  prove  inter 
eating,"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  sweeping  her  black  fan 
indolently  to  and  fro. 

•*  That  means  they  ar«  either  savages  or  endowed  with 


10  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

rarer  attributes  than  most,"  returns  a  young  mau  who  ii 
busying  himself  pulling  the  ears  of  a  black-and-tan  ter- 
rier. Another  young  man,  lounging  against  the  open 
window,  says  nothing. 

It  is  a  sultry  afternoon  in  mid-June — heavy,  burden- 
some, because  of  its  unbroken  heat.  The  wind  had  for- 
gotten the  earth;  the  roses — its  lovers — are  drooping  out- 
side in  the  garden,  the  sunflowers,  stately  and  grand  in 
their  long  stiff  beds,  are  glowing  and  sighing  in  vain. 

"Miss  Maturin  I  thought  cold  in  manner,  but  aristo- 
cratic in  appearance,"  goes  on  Lady  Bouverie.  "  She  is 
of  good  blood  beyond  question,  the  Maturing  of  Egley, 
from  whom  they  all  come,  being  quite  everything  one 
could  desire.  They  can  count  as  many  generations  as  the 
ordinary  parvenu  his  years." 

"  Can  Miss  Maturin  count  many  years?"  asks  the  young 
man  with  the  terrier,  half  insolently. 

"More  than  you  can,  certainly.  She  is  about  forty  or 
forty-five,  I  should  say." 

"  Alas  and  alack!  And  is  she  the  heiress?  Are  all  my 
fond  hopes  to  be  so  cruelly  dashed?  Is  there  no  saving 
clause?  Is  she  the  whole  of  our  new  neighbors?" 

"My  dear  Bruno,  do  let  Fifa's  ears  alone;  I'm  sure  she 
can't  like  that  incessant  pulling!  No;  there  is  a  niece — 
such  a  pretty  creature,  all  warmth  and  sunshine,  the  most 
extreme  contrast  to  the  aunt,  who  to  me  appeared  really 
rather  forbidding.  It  seems  she — the  niece — is  the  heiress, 
as  she  inherits  all  her  aunt's  property,  which  is  consider- 
able, both  here  and  in  the  North.  A  charming  girl  I 
thought  her." 

For  an  instant  her  eyes  wandered  to  her  elder  son, 
loaning  idly  half  in,  half  out  of  the  window,  and  appar- 
ently indifferent  to  the  conversation.  His  indifference 
seems  at  this  moment  to  cause  her  some  annoyance,  she 
frowns  slightly,  and  taps  her  foot  upon  the  floor  with  un- 
mistakable impatience.  She  is  a  tall  woman  of  the  bony 
type,  with  a  cold,  haughty  expression,  an  eye  like  an  eagle, 
and  a  Roman  nose.  Her  lips  are  as  thin  as  her  sympathies, 
her  eyes  as  colorless  as  her  sentiments.  Neither  of  her 
sons,  except  in  height,  in  the  least  resembles  her.  They 
are  both  tall,  well-knit  young  men,  with  sufficient  good 
looks  to  command  a  Wcond  glance,  Bruno,  the  younger, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  11 

being  a  shade  darker  than  Dick,  the  elder,  and  perhaps  a 
ehade  more  companionable  to  the  ordinary  acquaintance. 

"  I  will  take  your  word  for  it  all,"  says  Bruno.  "  I 
feel  she  is  the  girl  for  me!  Warmth  and  sunshine  and  an 
heiress  who  is  a  beauty  is  as  much  as  any  reasonable  fellow 
can  expect.  At  all  events,  I  shouldn't  cavil  at  it." 

"  I  hope  you  intend  to  make  a  long  stay  in  the  country 
now,  Kichard,"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  turning  to  her  elder 
son  and  ignoring  the  frivolity  of  the  younger.  "It  is 
quite  time  you  took  some  little  interest  in  the  estate. 
Your  father,  as  you  know,  is  useless.  His  library  " — with 
a  sudden  cold  sneer — "  is  his  kingdom.  There  he  dreams 
away  his  life  in  imaginary  worlds — 

'"In  moldy  novels  fancy  sees 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs.' 

He  fancies  there  are  priceless  treasures  on  those  dirty 
shelves  of  his." 

"  'His  mind  to  him  a  kingdom  is,'"  quotes  Dick  Bou- 
verie, speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  Happy  is  the  man 
who  can  retain  his  fancies — however  foolish — when  old 
age  has  caught  him  !  Let  my  father  enjoy  his  books  in 
peace  !" 

"It  is  your  part  to  insure  him  that  enjoyment,"  says 
Lady  Bouverie,  with  ill-repressed  sharpness.  "If  you 
attend  to  the  accounts,  or  at  least  overlook  Watkins  now 
and  then,,  there  is  no  1'eason  why  your  father  should  not 
molder  away  with  his  books,  unmolested  by  words  of 
mine.  All  servants  require  a  master's  eye  upon  them." 

"Have  you  got  it,  Dick  ?"asks  Bruno,  laughing.  "Look 
at  me  till  I  see  if  I  should  quail  before  it.  Very  poor  effect 
indeed  !  If  I  were  yon,  1  should  grow  one  in  my  fore- 
head; it  would  be  far  more  imposing." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  were  going  to  the  stables, 
Bruno?"  says  his  mother,"  regarding  him  with  gome  dis- 
favor. 

"No;  I  am  going  to  stay  here  and  listen  to  you.  The 
people  with  whom  Fifa  and  I  love  to  associate  seldom 
drop  pearls  of  wisdom  from  their  lips.  Do  they,  Fifa?" 
— to  the  terrier,  who  barks  a  loud  "No,"  and  lifts  a  fore- 
paw  in  anxious  expectation  of  another  word  of  recogni- 
tion. 


13  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  I  hate  farming  and  Watkins  and  the  country  gener- 
ally," interposes  Dick,  with  a  gesture  of  dislike. 

"Still,  if  your  duty— " 

"  I  hate  that  even  more  !  What's  the  matter  with  Wat- 
kins  ?  Why  can't  he  go  on  alone  in  his  management,  as 
he  has  done"  for  years  ?" 

"There  isn't  anything  the  matter  with  him,"  inter- 
rupts Bruno,  "  beyond  an  oppressive  smell  of  corduroy  ! 
He  is  quite  well — no  ailment  of  any  sort,  as  far  as  I  can 
see." 

"  He  grows  decidedly  careless  and  in  many  ways  unsat- 
isfactory," says  Lady  Bouverie;  "  he  is,  in  fact,  too  old 
for  his  post.  If  I  had  my  way,  he  should  be  dismissed  at 
once,  and  a  younger,  a  more  competent  man  put  in  his 
place." 

"  But  naturally  you  shrink  from  discharging  one  who 
has  served  you  faithfully  for  over  twenty  years,"  says 
Dick  gravely,  flicking  a  little  speck  of  dust  from  his 
waistcoat. 

A  dull  color  flames  into  his  mother's  cheeks.  The 
latent  antagonism  between  her  and  her  elder  sou  springs 
into  life  at  his  words,  and  speaks  through  her  angry  eyes. 

"You  mistake  me!"  I  shrink  at  nothing!"  she  says 
haughtily. 

'•  It  seems  a  pity,"  strikes  in  Bruno  judiciously,  mark- 
ing the  signs  of  coming  storm,  "  that  my  many  graces 
and  speaking  virtues  should  have  induced  my  cousin,  the 
admiral,  to  leave  me  that  little  place  of  mine,  or  I  should 
have  been  delighted  to  give  my  talents  to  the  overhauling 
of  Watkins.  I  find  him  &  very  attractive  old  person,  and 
rich  in  humor  when  I  can  understand  him.  which  is  sel- 
dom." 

"He  can  do  nothing,"  says  Lady  Bouverie  shortly. 

"He  can — he  can  take  snuff!"  corrects  her  younger  son 
mildly.     "  I'd  back  him  against  any  one  at  that.     You 
underrate  him,  mother.     You  should  at  least  " — reproach 
fully — "be  just,  and  give  the  man  his  due." 

"I  hope  you  mean  to  give  up  town  this  season."  says 
Lady  Bouverie,  addressing  her  elder  son.  "It  is  now  six 
months  since  you  have  been  at  home;  you  should  spare  us 
a  little  of  vour  tim^  It  is  " — coldly — "  for  your  own  in- 
terest i*on«a  X  speak,  _1£  *t  vour  father's  death*  you 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAET.  13 

things  all  at  sixes  and  sevens,  blame  yourself,  and  remem- 
ber I  warned  you." 

"  Well,  I'll  think  it  over,"  returns  Dick  discontentedly. 
"  You  relieve  me,  however,  when  you  remind  me  that  my 
carelessness  will  make  only  myself  a  sufferer.  By  the  bye, 
I'm  going  clown  to  the  Hollows  this  afternoon.  Any 
message  for  Audrey?" 

"  Say  I  shall  be  pleased  if  she  will  come  up  and  dine 
with  me  to-night.  I  suppose  it  is  only  right  I  should 
show  her  some  small  civility  at  times,"  says  Lady  Bouverie, 
with  a  half  frown,  "  although  she  and  I  are  so  totally  dis- 
similar in  every  way  that  she  perpetually  jars  upon  me. 
How  she  can  be  my  niece  and  still  possess  her  objection- 
able ways  is  and  always  will  be  to  me  a  mystery.  She  will 
expect  me  of  course  to  ask  her  here  a  little,  now  you  and 
Bruno  are  at  home." 

"  I  shall  give  her  your  message,"  returns  Dick,  moving 
through  the  window  on  to  the  balcony  without. 

"  As  you  will  be  passing  Greylands,"  says  Lady 
Bouverie,  regarding  him  calmly,  and,  speaking  with  the 
constrained  air  of  one  who  is  following  up  an  after- 
thought, "I  wish  you  would  call  upon  Miss  Maturin,  and 
tell  her  I  shall  send  down  to-morrow  those  pelargoniums 
she  spoke  of  yesterday." 

"I  shall  remember,"  answers  Dick,  as,  with  his  usual 
idle  step,  he  goes  down  the  stone  stairs  to  the  sward  be- 
neath. 

"  I'm  rather  glad  that  old  place  has  got  a  mistress  at 
last,"  remarks  Bruno  pleasantly,  as  he  too  rises  to  pay  his 
long-deferred  visit  to  the  stables,  or  the  kennel,  or  some- 
where. 

"  Yes;  it  is  an  advantage.  It  is  too  fine  an  old  house 
to  be  let  sink  into  decay,  and  moneyed  people  are  always 
to  be  desired.  We  are  not  sufficiently  rich  ourselves  to 
regard  money  with  disdain,  or  rather  to  pretend  to  do  so-, 
and  Richard,  when  he  marries,  should  think  of — "  She 
pauses  abruptly.  "I  hope  he  will  not  forget  my  message 
about  those  pelargoniums,"  she  concludes,  with  careful 
carelessness. 

"  And  I  hope  he  will  deliver  it  to  the  charming  niece; 
don't  you?"  supplements  Bruno  innocently,  as  he  strolli 
out  of  the  room,  Fifa  at  his  heels. 

Meantime  Dick,  sauntering  slowly  over  the  fields  to  the 


14  DICK  S    SWEETHEART. 

Hollows,  where  his  cousin  lives,  with  a  frown  on  hisbrovi 
and  an  impatient  light  in  his  dark  blue  eyes — a  light  that 
kindles  there  all  too  readily  beneath  his  mother's  touch — 
is  thinking  of  many  things. 

It  is  growing  toward  evening,  and  now  at  last  a  faint 
breeze  has  uprisen,  flying  inland  from  the  sea  cliffs,  full 
of  fresh  and  salty  sweetness,  to  dance  merrily  among  the 
swaying  branches  of  the  trees.  It  wakes  the  drowsy  birds 
to  sudden  life,  and  thrush  and  lark  and  linnet  have  all 
come  forth  to  unite  in  one  grand  evensong  that  thrills 
through  wood  and  vale  and  bosky  dell. 

On  the  tennis-ground  of  the  Hollows  a  girl  is  standing 
talking  somewhat  apathetically  to  a  young  man  of  the 
washed-out  type.  Seeing  Bouverie  advancing  from  under 
the  limes,  she  says  something  to  this  polite  nonentity 
which  sends  him  racing  toward  the  house.  She  is  a  tall 
girl,  with  a  pretty  svelte  figure,  and  a  face  that  would 
be  beyond  reproach,  but  for  a  certain  touch  of  repressive 
pride  and  studied  insolence — arising  from  education  more 
than  nature — that  characterizes  it.  The  eyes,  large  and 
of  a  pure  hazel,  look  at  one  out  of  a  haze  of  haughty 
doubt;  the  chin  is  determined,  the  hair  of  a  lustrous 
brown.  Poverty,  mingled  with  the  traditions  of  many 
generations,  has  raised  this  cloud  upon  a  brow  that  should 
be  possessed  of  contentment  only. 

Just  now  she  is  advancing  toward  Dick  with  a  firm 
step  and  a  prepared  smile,  and  a  little  involuntary  curl 
about  her  handsome  lips. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  cousin — you  ?"  she  says,  coming  slowly 
up  to  him,  her  tone  genial,  her  expression  belying  her 
tone.  "  Why,  it  is  quite  six  months,  I  think,  since  last 
we  met!  I  hope  absence  has  not  lessened  your  love  for 
me?"  Her  voice  is  peculiar — clear,  distinct,  and  soft,  yet 
with  an  echo  in  it  full  of  mockery  that  falls  upon  the 
heart  when  the  words  have  passed  away. 

"  No,"  replies  Bouverie,  taking  her  proffered  hand. 

"Or  increased  it?"  Here  the  mockery  overrides  the 
softness. 

"No — since  you  demand  the  truth,"  says  Bouverie 
again,  not  uncivilly,  but  with  an  indifference  that  might 
well  anger  any  woman. 

"You  are  candor  itself,"  declares  Miss  Ponsonby,  with 
a  little  laugh  and  a  slight  shrug  of  her  rounded  shoulders. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  15 

"  Let  me  emulate  you  by  telling  you  what  is  on  mj  mind. 
It  is — what  brought  you?" 

'*  A  message  from  my  mother  principally." 

"To  beg  I  will  hold  myself  with  greater  dignity  in 
church  of  a  Sunday,  and  so  set  my  father's  pupils  a 
worthy  example?"  asks  she,  with  a  little  tremulous  sneer. 
"  Or  is  it  a  hope  that  I  have  sought  to  cure  myself  of  my 
reprehensible  habit  of  using  slang  words,  'unfit  for  any 
lady's  use,'  and  evidently  contracted  from  the  aforesaid 
pupils?" 

"  Neither  of  these  advices  has  been  intrusted  to  me," 
says  Bouverie  coldly.  "  Why  are  you  always  so  hard 
upon  my  mother?" 

But,  even  as  he  says  this  in  a  rather  lofty  mnnner,  he 
reminds  himself  that  he  too  has  been  harboring  hard 
thoughts  in  his  mind  during  his  walk  hither. 

"  '  I  hate  them  that  my  vices  telle  me,  and  so  do  more 
of  us  (God  wot)  than  I!'  "  quotes  the  girl,  with  a  little 
disdainful  moue. 

"  Whom  were  you  talking  to  just  now  as  I  came  up?" 
asks  Bouverie  presently. 

"Was  I  talking  to  anybody?" 

"  I  certainly  fancied  so.  I  fancied  too  he  went  round 
that  corner  " — pointing  to  it — **  as  I  came  in  sight." 

"  What  an  excellent  chaperon  you  would  make,  Dick  I" 
says  his  cousin,  with  suspicious  admiration.  "  One  feels 
positive  regret  that  you  should  have  so  few  opportunities 
of  exercising  your  talent.  You  see  " — raising  her  somber 
eyes  with  a  sudden  flash  to  his — "I  can't  employ  you, 
your  mother  being  more  than  enough  for  me.  She  keeps 
not  only  her  own  eyes,  but  the  eyes  of  all  the  neighbor- 
hood upon  my  every  action." 

"Still  you  haven't  told  me  about  your  new  friend," 
persists  Dick,  unmoved.  "  See— here  he  comes!  Now" 
. — without  lowering  his  voice — "  may  I  know  who  he  is?" 

"Certainly — one  of  dad's  boys." 

At  this  "  one  of  dad's  boys  "  stops  short,  blushes,  and 
looks  ineffable  things;  but,  as  is  his  wont,  says  nothing. 

"  Ah,"  says  Bouverie,  his  eyes  on  the  limp  youth,  who 
IB  uneasily  shifting  his  lanky  body  from  foot  to  foot  be- 
neath his  steady  gaze,  "  that  is  an  excellent  introduction, 
no  doubt.  But  I  think  I  should  like  one  a  little  more 
formal." 


16  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Too  happy,  Fm  sure!"  murmurs  "  dad's  "  last  boy  iu 
a  milk-and-water  tone,  whilst  trying  to  do  impossible 
things  with  an  eyeglass — a  late  purchase  evidently,  and 
dreadfully  in  the  way. 

"That  is  nonsense,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  sharply. 
"  No  one  was  ever  too  happy.  However,  if  it  will  make 
you  a  joyful  man  to  know  you  once  looked  on  Dick  Bou- 
verie,  be  joyful.  Are  you  ready  for  your  introduction, 
Dick?  Sir  Chicksy  Chaucer — Mr.  Bouverie.  Feel  any 
thrill  of  bliss,  Sir  Chicksy?" 

"  Could  hardly  help  that,  you  know — so  near  you—- 
able to  see  you,  you  know,  and — er — that !"  chirrups  Sir 
Chicksy,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  gallantry. 

"  You  will  be  able  to  see  me  a  great  deal  better  if  you 
drop  that  insane  bit  of  glass,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  calm- 
ly. "  What  on  earth  did  you  buy  it  for — eh?  You  have 
the  best  sight  of  any  one  I  know." 

"  Been  long  in  the  country,  Sir  Chicksy?  "  asks  Bou 
verie,  coming  to  the  rescue;  but  Mies  PonjBonby's  last  re 
mark  has  overwhelmed  Sir  Chicksy  and  left  him  speech- 
less. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  long  time!"  says  Dick's  cousin,  answering 
for  her  victim.  "Ever  so  long — years,  I  think!  You 
eame  last  February,  didn't  you,  Sir  Chicksy?" 

"  Last  April.  Seems  like  yesterday  to  me,"  sighs  thfe 
smitten  baronet,  with  a  reproachful  glance  at  her.  "  Very 
glad  indeed  to — er — make  your  cousin's  acquaintance. 
Any" — with  a  rush — " cousin  of  yours — er — "  Heavy 
fall. 

"Any  cousin?"  says  Miss  Ponsonby.  "Will  they  all 
make  you  'too  happy'?  Why,  you  will  be  surfeited  with 
gladness!  Very  good;  I'll  send  word  to  the  lot.  By  the 
bye,  where  is  that  racket  I  sent  you  for  a  moment  since? 
No?  Oh,  it  must  be  where  I  said  it  was!" 

"It  isn't  indeed.  Give  you  my  word;  I  searched  for  it 
high  and  low,"  declares  Sir  Chicksy,  growing  quite  warm 
through  fear  of  her  increasing  displeasure. 

"  Well,  try  the  pantry.  I  know  I  had  it  in  my  hand 
yesterday,  when  I  went  there  to  speak  to  Mary." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  such  an  old  boy  as  that  on  the 
premises,"  says  Dick,  when  Sir  Chicksy  had  disappeared 
once  more  around  the  corner,  with  coat-tails  flying. 

"That  is  because  you  have  bee»  BO  long  away.     Yo» 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAfiT.  17 

and  Bruno  so  seldom  visit  your  home  that  you  giye  us 
time  to  quite  forget  you  now  and  then." 

"Not  quite,  I  hope,"  protests  Dick,  politely,  but  impo- 
litely too,  the  want  of  interest  in  his  face  being  only  too 
apparent. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  make  pretty  speeches  to  me, 
Dick.  I'll  let  you  off,"  returns  she,  with  a  slight  shrug 
and  a  peculiar  smile. 

"  Well,  I  hope  dad's   new  boy  will  prove  a  credit  to 
him,"  says  Bouverie,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  laboriously  N 
endeavoring  to  make  conversation. 

"Like  'dad's'  old  boy,"  says  a  fresh  voice  coming  from 
behind  them,  "  though  misunderstood  by  all  but  '  dad ' 
himself!  What,  you,  Dick,  old  chap?  What  good  wind 
has  blown  you  hither?" 

"A  cab  and  a  down  train,"  replies  Dick,  turning  with 
a  friendly  smile  to  the  new-comer,  a  tall  young  man  of 
about  thirty,  with  a  square  face,  rather  cynical  lips,  and 
chestnut  hair. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Vyner,  for  the  second  time  to-day?" 
gays  Miss  Ponsonby,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him — it  is  a 
beautiful  hand,  as  fair  and  as  cool  as  a  lily. 

Bouverie  stares  at  her. 

"I  thought  Vyner  was  always  Anthony  to  you?"  he 
says. 

"  So  he  was  " — demurely.  "  But  of  late  " — mimicking 
her  aunt's  formal  tones  to  perfection — "I  have  striven  to 
conquer  that  deplorable  habit  I  have  fallen  into  of  calling 
young  gentlemen  by  their  Christian  names." 

Both  men  smile. 

"  My  mother  sent  you  her  love,  and  she  hopes  you  wiU 
iine  with  her  to-night,"  says  Bouverie. 

"  How  sweet  of  her!  Are  you  sure  you  have  delivered 
your  message  correctly?  Are  you  certain  of  the  Move* 
part  of  it?  I  think  I  could  do  it  better.  '  Tell  Audrey 
that  if  sbe  will  care  to  dine  with  me  to-night — which  I 
greatly  doubt,  my  society  being  scarcely  calculated  to  suit 
her — I  shall  be  pleased.'  Give  her  my  love  in  return, 
however,  and  toll  her  I  am  sorry  a  severe  and  crushing 
headache  will  prevent  my  coming  to  Kingmore  this 
evening. 

"Oh,   do  come;.  J«*jn*y  M  welll"  says  her  cousin. 


18  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Bruno  is  at  home  to-night;  it  won't  be  quite  go  slow  roi 
you." 

"  Why,"  asks  Vyner,  knocking  the  ash  off  his  cigar, 
"is  Bruno  the  one  in  favor  now?" 

"I  confess  to  a  weakness  for  Bruno,"  says  Audrey. 
"But  indeed" — raising  her  dark  eyes  to  his — "you  are 
all  so  high  in  my  favor,  I  could  not  put  one  before  the 
other.  Still  no — I  shall  not  leave  dad  to-night." 

"  Happy  Sir  Chicksy! "  murmurs  Mr.  Vyner  inno- 
cently. 

"  It  was  dad  I  spoke  of,  but,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  yes. 
I  shall  stay  here  with  him  and  Sir  Chicksy,"  says  the  girl, 
just  a  little  defiantly. 

"  And  a  very  nice  entertaining  boy  he  is  to  stay  with," 
returned  Mr.  Vyner,  with  suspicious  cordiality.  "  Having 
been  frequently  in  his  society  of  late,  I  may  be  considered 
qualified  to  speak.  He  is  quite  an  antique  in  his  way — a 
bit  of  old  English,  like  his  name.  By  the  bye,  has  he  in- 
herited any  of  the  talent  of  his  great  namesake.  Taken 
any  rides  to  Canterbury — eh?  " 

"No,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby  rather  shortly.  She  has 
drawn  herself  up,  and  is  looking  at  him  with  a  slight 
frown  on  her  low  brow. 

"  Tastes  are  unaccountable,  we  all  know,"  remarks 
Bouverie  carelessly;  "yet  I  should  have  thought  any 
girl  would  prefer  Bruno  to  that  callow  youth  I  saw  just 
now. " 

"  Remember  how  often  you  have  told  me  I  am  unlike 
most  girls;  and  to  me  Sir  Chicksy  at  present  is  prefera- 
ble. He  is  newer,  and  therefore  better  fun." 

"Isn't  it  hard  to  know  any  one?"  says  Mr.  Vyner, 
with  an  air  of  deep  surprise.  "  He  doesn't  look  funny! 
Sad,  I'd  call  it.  Here  he  is,  by  Jove,  and  full  of  go,  aa 
aiual! 

"  '  He  comes,  he  comes,  with  his  flashing  eyes. 
And  his  cheek  of  passion's  hue!' " 

This  quotation  is  most  unfortunately  apt,  as  Sir 
Chicksy  comes  panting  up  to  them,  rubicund  as  a  peony. 

"I've  got  it!  he  says,  waving  the  lost  racket  triumph- 
antly above  his  head  and  smiling  broadly.  "  Not  such  a 
bad  messenger,  after  all — am  I?" 

" Bad!    The  verv  baitl "  savs  Miss  Ponsonby.  suddenly 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  Jl 

»nd  most  unexpectedly  bestowing  upon  him  one  of  hat 
rare  smiles. 

The  smile  carries  Sir  Chicksy  into  the  seventh  heaven, 
where  he  remains  for  a  considerable  time.  Not  that  his 
goddess  follows  him  thither!  She  moves  a  little  apart 
from  the  three  men,  and,  stooping,  picks  up  a  ball  or  two 
lying  near  her  on  the  tennis-court.  As  she  bends  and 
rights  herself  again,  it  is  impossible  not  to  mark  the  ex- 
treme grace  and  beauty  of  her  lissom  figure.  She  is 
dressed  in  a  style  slightly  bizarre,  but  very  pretty;  and, 
though  there  is  nothing  about  her  costume  to  detract 
from  the  careful  charm  of  it,  still  there  is  something  that 
suggests  the  idea  that  new  gowns  with  her  are  few  and 
far  between. 

Mr.  Vyner's  eyes,  as  she  picks  up  the  balls,  follow  her 
intently — not  lovingly — simply  curiously,  and  with  that 
air  of  studying,  of  striving  to  master  the  secret  workings 
of  the  hearts  of  those  with  whom  he  finds  himself  in  con- 
tact which  distinguishes  him. 

"  That's  a  very  pretty  gown  you  have  on,"  he  says, 
presently,  without  enthusiasm;  whereupon  Sir  Chicksy — 
who  has  been  wildly  but  vainly  endeavoring  to  float  on  a 
conversational  sea  with  Bouverie — turns  a  murderous  eye 
on  him. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  says  Audrey,  indifferently; 
"you  will  the  less  soon  tire  of  it.  As  it  is  my  latest,  you 
are  likely  to  see  a  good  deal  of  it  before  it  finds  a  worthy 
successor."  As  she  makes  this  candid  avowal,  she  laughs 
a  little  bitterly. 

"  '  Long  may  it  wave'  then!'"'  says  Vyner  cheerfully. 

"  I  must  be  off!"  exclaims  Bouverie,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  You  won't  change  your  mind,  Audrey,  and 
come  up  to  dinner,  after  all?"  He  says  this  earnestly. 

"  And  so  help  you  to  go  through  a  monotonous  even- 
ing?" returns  the  girl,  carelessly  throwing  her  balls  into 
the  air  and  catching  them  again.  "  No  " — with  a  shrug 
- — "I  would  do  a  few  things  for  you,  but  not  that." 

Bouverie  laughs  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  You  would  have  been  a  help,  I  confess,"  he  says  light- 
ly. "Will  you  come  to  the  rescue,  Vyner?  Does  the 
mater  frighten  you?" 

"Your  invitation  comes  too  late,"  says  Mr.  Vyner,  with 
dignity.  "  You  ofEeJMlfld.iaeJiaLf  au  hour  ago  by  ignoring 


20  DICK'S    SWBETHEAET. 

suy  existence.  Now  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  dint 
with  '  dad  '  and  Sir  Chicksy." 

"  You  can't  indeed,"  declares  Miss  Ponsonby,  hurried- 
ly, letting  her  balls  reach  the  sward  unheeded;  "it  is 
qu'te  impossible — quite!" 

"Nothing  is  impossible!  I'm  all  alone  at  Moorlands 
this  evening;  and,  as  you  well  know,  I  can't  endure  my 
own  society.  It  is  useless  your  regarding  me  with  that 
forbidding  frown,  Miss  Ponsonby,  because  I  won't  take  a 
denial.  I  shall  appeal  to  '  dad '  himself  if  you  refuse  me 
a  hearing,  and  he  will  certainly  treat  me  as  I  deserve. " 

"You  can  not  dine  to-night!"  says  Audrey,  with  em- 
phasis. "  For  one  thing  " — coloring  warmly  through  her 
pale,  clear  skin — "  there  is  only  cold  mutton  for  dinner." 

"  Is  it  a  loin?" — unmoved. 

"Yes,"  unwillingly. 

"  Then  I  shall  stay.  If  there  is  one  thing  for  which  I 
have  a  settled  hankering,  it  is  a  loin  of  mutton,  cold;  be- 
gides — "  lowering  his  voice,  "  you  have  so  whetted  my 
euriosity  about  Sir  Chicksy,  described  him  in  such  glow- 
ing colors  as  a  wit  and  all  that,  that  I  am  bent  on  improv- 
ing his  acquaintance." 

"You  are  bent  on  nothing  of  the  kind!"  angrily. 

"  I  am  indeed.  Do  you  think,  if  I  ask  him  to  Moor- 
lands for  the  grouse,  he  will  promise  not  to  shoot  himself? 
By  the  bye,  I  may  come  to  dinner,  may  I  not?" 

"  Oh,  you  can  come  if  you  likel  returns  she,  un- 
graciously. 

"  Then  I  must  go  home  disconsolate,"  says  Dick,  "  and 
listen  all  through  dinner  to  diatribes  against  the  servants, 
uttered  before  their  faces,  an  ordeal  greater  than  which  I 
know  not.  Good-by,  Audrey;  I  hope  this  cruelty  will 
be  forgiven  you.  Oh,  look  here — you  won't  refuse  to 
oome  to  us  on  the  nineteenth,  at  least — will  you?" 

"  To  Aunt  Maria's  dance?" 

"  Yes.  It  ought  to  be  a  success.  My  mother,  poor 
»oul,  has  taken  such  pains  about  it — though  why  she 
can't  go  to  town  in  the  season,  and  give  her  '  At  homes ' 
in  a  rational  manner,  I  can't  conceive." 

"  I  shall  be  at  her  irrational  one,  at  all  events.  The 
Duchess  is  to  be  there,  is  she  not?  And  I  quite  long  to 
find  myself  for  once  face  to  face  with  a  real  live  'big  D.' 
My  acquaintance  witb^tbem.  iu>,tO  this  has  been  confined 


DICK'S    SWEETHEABT.  31 

to  that  charming  lady  in  'Alice  in  Wonderland*  who 
dandled  a  pig." 

"  I'm  glad  ycu'll  come,"  says  Dick,  "  though  I  won't 
gwear  you  will  enjoy  yourself.  My  mother  believes  her- 
•elf  irresistible;  but  I  hardly  know  any  one  so  universally 
unpopular.  Is  it  her  misfortune  or  her  fault?" 

He  is  talking  now  exclusively  to  Audrey,  Mr.  Vyner 
having  engaged  himself  in  a  desperate  argument — hope- 
less of  termination — with  the  terrified  Sir  Chicksy. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  decide  so  delicate  a  point,"  says 
Miss  Ponsoriby,  with  lowered  lids  and  an  untranslatable 
smile.  "  Good-evening,  Dick,  if  you  must  go  so  soon. 
You  leave  at  least  one  regret  behind  you." 

"  And  that  is?" 

"  That  you  can  not  induce  Mr.  Vyner  to  accompany 
you." 

"Very  poor,  very  poor  indeed!"  says  Mr.  Vyner,  with 
open  contempt.  "  It  would  take  thrice  that  to  make  me 
forego  the  cold  loin  and — Sir  Chicksy." 

"Oh,  I  knew  the  hint  would  be  useless!"  retorts  Miss 
Ponsonby,  with  a  contemptuous  gesture. 

"Well,  good-by  again,  sweet  coz,"  says  Dick,  lightly. 
"  I  am  off  to  fulfill  a  second  mission.  Let  us  hope  I 
shall  be  more  successful  in  that  than  in  my  first." 

"  The  gods  grant  it!"  returns  Audrey,  piously. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Dick?"  asks  Vyner. 

"To  *  Castle  Dangerous' — that  is,  to  Greylands,  where 
Venus  embodied  lives,  as  I  hear." 

"Ah!  To  see  Miss  Lome!  Well,  you  won't  be  dig- 
appointed;  she  is  as  lovely  as  a  dream!  I  saw  her  yester- 
day." 

"  A  good  reason  for  seeing  her  again  to-day.  Walk 
so  far  with  me,  Anthony." 

"  Can't,  my  clear  boy.  Must  stay  here,  as  I  have  told 
you  already,  to  pick  up  Miss  Ponsonby's  balls  and  such 
sparks  of  wisdom  that  fall  from  the  erudite  lips  of  Sir 
Chicksy.  Cultivate  the  talented  at  all  risks — that  is  an 
undeviating  rule  with  me." 

"  Till  we  meet  igaiFv  ^hen  !"  says  Bouverie,  fading 
•wiftly  from  sigh' 


22  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  SHORT  walk  across  the  sunny  meadows  brings  him  to 
the  gates  of  Greylunds. 

"  Beastly  bore,  my  mother's  insisting  on  my  taking  a 
message  here,  to  people  of  whom  I  know  nothing,  nor  wish 
to  know,"  he  mutters  to  himself,  as  he  stands  outside  the 
gate,  hesitating  about  demanding  admittance.  "Freshly 
painted,  by  Jove,"  he  says,  regarding  the  decent  gate  with 
scorn,  "and  the  grass  gone  from  the  avenue!  What  a 
difference  a  brush  and  a  scraper  can  accomplish !  I  hardly 
know  the  old  place  now.  What  a  number  of  years  it  is 
since  I  went  through  this  gate!  Never  since  old  Jasper's 
time,  and  never  then,  I  think!  A  short  cut  through  the 
high  grass  and  the  hanging  branches  was  more  in  my  line 
at  ten!  Let's  see  if  I  could  feel  like  ten  now,  and  if  that 
•idewood" — with  a  half  laugh — "and  that  rustic  gate 
leading  into  the  garden,  still  sniff  of  paradise." 

Turning  aside  from  the  principal  entrance,  he  follows 
the  road  a  little  higher  up  until  he  conies  to  a  wooden 
stile;  springing  over  this,  he  finds  himself  knee-deep  in 
scented  clover,  with  a  vision  of  leafy  shade  beyond. 
Reaching  the  wooded  hollow  on  the  left,  he  plunges  into 
its  mystic  recesses  with  a  faint  return  of  the  old  boyish 
delight  in  its  glories  which  once  held  him  captive,  and 
even  now  awakens  a  thrill  of  keenest  pleasure  in  his 
breast.  It  is  short- lived  however;  years  and  the  world's 
scorching  touch  have  killed  the  freshness  that  could  once 
find  joy  prolonged  in  the  secrets  of  mysterious  Nature. 

Even  as  the  perfumed  branches  press  down  to  bar  his 
path,  and  myriad  forest  flowers  cry  out  for  notice  in  the 
gathering  twilight,  his  mind  reverts  with  an  angry  im- 
patience to  his  mother's  last  hints  and  innuendoes. 

To  ask  a  fellow  to  spend  his  entire  su aimer  buried  alive 
in  a  hole  of  a  place  like  this!  Could  there  be  anything 
more  unreasonable?  But  women  and  reason  were  two! 
That  he  had  known  to  his  cost  for  many  a  day,  be  the 
woman  mother,  or  cousin,  or — 

He  had  told  himself  before  leaving  town  that  he  was 
enacting  quite  the  part  of  the  model  son  in  accediner  to 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  33 

her  request  that  he  would  be  present  at  her  dance  on  the 
nineteenth,  given  in  honor  of  the  Duchess,  who  was  a 
sort  of  thirty-first  cousin  of  his  father.  The  Duchess,  for 
some  inscrutable  reason,  had  elected  to  go  down  to  her 
place  in  Blankshire,  about  ten  miles  from  Kingmore,  at 
this  unholy  time,  missing  her  season  point-blank,  to  the 
astonishment  of  all  her  friends.  He  had  indeed  felt  he 
had  done  a  good  deal  in  the  filial  line  when  he  too  had 
gone  down  to  Blankshire,  meaning  to  stay  a  week  or  ten 
days  at  the  outside.  And  now  he  linds  himself  let  in  for 
a  visit  extending  over  an  indefinite  period.  And  what 
the  deuce  does  he  know  of  accounts  or  Watkins,  or — 

There  is  that  dinner  at  Richmond  to  which  he  is  al- 
most bound,  and,  autres  mceurs,  that  dance  at  Lady  Mille- 
fleur's,  and  the  time  running  short  now!  Well,  a  week 
of  accounts  ought  to  mean  a  good  many  figures,  and  this 
is  only  the  fourteenth,  and  the  last  week  of  June  and  first 
of  July  are  never  half  so  bad — and — and  of  course 
"duty  "is  a  beastly  word,  especially  when  thrust  upon 
one  in  that  uncompromising  fashion;  but — with  a  sigh  he 
acknowledges  this — it  means  something  in  the  long  run; 
and  a  man,  if  he  wants  to  keep  straight  at  all,  must  have 
some  chart  by  which  to  steer. 

These  glimpses  into  a  profound  morality  bring  him  to 
a  small  rustic  gate  studded  with  iron  nails  which  is  sunk 
in  a  high  wall.  There  are  two  steps  leading  up  to  it, 
and,  as  he  mounts  them  and  pushes  it  open,  one  can  see 
that  six  more  steps  must  be  ascended  before  the  garden 
beyond  is  reached.  Closing  the  small  gate  gently  behind 
him,  Bouverie,  with  a  relapse  into  his  former  dreamy 
state — born  of  the  old  happy  days  when  he  was  a  boy, 
and  their  memories — springs  lightly  up  the  inner  steps, 
and,  looking  straight  before  him,  sees,  not  ten  paces  from 
him,  something  that  dispels  all  boyish  visions,  something 
most  sweet,  most  fair  and  rich  in  grace  and  beauty  1 

A  little  rose-red  hammock  swung  by  silken  ropes,  a 
childish  form  lost  in  lazy  tranquil  slumber,  with,  upon  its 
bosom,  a  great  cluster  of  pale  blossoms  that  rise  and  fall 
with  the  coming  and  going  of  the  breath  that  stirs  the 
heart  beneath;  a  pure  blue  sky  that  shows  through  the 
netted  tangle  of  the  branches  overhead,  a  singing  of  many 
birds,  the  fond  murmur  of  a  distant  stream,  and,  over 
and  through  all  these,  the  rush  of  a  soft  wind,  laden  heavi- 


24  DICK'S    SWEETHEAKT. 

ly  with  the  perfume  of  the  innumerable  roses  that 
throng  this  enchanted  corner  ? 

Lightly,  too,  this  scented  wind  is  rocking  to  and  fro  the 
crimson  bed ;  but  still  its  little,  pale,  fair  occupant  lies 
unconscious.  Bouverie,  seeing  this,  his  latest,  sweetest 
visioa,  moveth  not,  draws  nearer,  nearer  still,  until  he  is 
gazing  down  upon  the  sleeping  marvel  so  strangely  found. 
Her  long  dark  lashes  lie  motionless  upon  her  cheek, 
flushed  delicately,  her  lips  are  slightly  parted  ;  one  arm, 
half  bare,  is  flung  above  the  shapely  head,  the  other  lies 
languidly — lost  in  part  amongst  the  scattered  flowers — 
upon  her  breast,  the  slender  fingers  still  sleepily  clutch- 
ing the  rosebuds  they  had  been  holding  when  conscious- 
ness departed. 

So  pure,  so  fragile  seems  the  sudden  vision  that  Bou- 
verie, afraid  to  stir  lest  the  faintest  sound  should  drive  it 
from  him  forever,  stands  mute  before  it,  wondering. 
There  is  a  calm  beauty  about  the  tranquil  face  which  fas- 
cinates him.  Unbidden  comes  to  him  the  thought : — 

"  That,  as  of  light  the  summer  sunn6  sheen 
Passeth  the  star,  right  so  over  measure 
She  fairer  is  than  any  creature." 

Then,  all  in  a  moment,  as  he  stands  spell-bound — fearing 
to  withdraw  lest  he  should  disturb  her,  yet  doubting  his 
right  to  stand  here  and  admire  without  let,  or  hinderance, 
or  permission,  so  fair  a  thing — the  soft  white  lids  uprise, 
and  two  eyes — "  sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  " — looked 
calmly  into  his.  Vaguely  they  look  at  first,  and  in  nowise 
coldly,  he  being  as  yet  but  a  fragment  of  the  wild  dream 
she  has  just  left :  then,  with  wide  lids  and  growing  knowl- 
edge, she  stares  at  him,  and  rising  on  her  dainty  elbow, 
lets  amazement  have  full  sway,  and  something  else,  too, 
that  might  perhaps  be  termed  indignant  wrath  m  one 
with  lips  and  eyes  less  sweet. 

"How  did  you  come  here?"  she  asks,  in  a  low,  clear 
voice.  There  is  surprise  largely  mingled  with  the  grave 
displeasure  in  her  face. 

"  By  this  gate,"  says  Dick  Bouverie,  quailing  beneath 
the  severity  of  those  searching  eyes.  "I  used  to  come 
into  the  garden  by  it  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  little  fellow, 
in  your — your  fa— -jfoot  Uncle's  time*  I  forgot  I  was  trea- 
paesing." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  25 

There  is  abject  humility  in  his  tone  and  expression; 
but  the  lady  of  the  hammock  refuses  to  he  softened. 

"  This  is  my  own  garden;  no  one  comes  here  without 
my  permission,"  she  says  austerely. 

""  I — 1  might  have  asked  for  permission,  certainly,"  sayi 
Dick  vaguely;  "but  I  didn't  know.  I — " 

"  It  would  have  been  of  no  use;  I  wish  to  be  alone  here 
always,"  she  returns,  with  distinct  meaning.  "The 
.mistake  is  in  part  my  own,  of  course;  yet  I  was  quite 
iure  I  had  turned  the  key  in  the  lock." 

"No,  there  was  no  key  at  all,"  says  Dick.  "But,  of 
course,  that  is  nothing.  I  should  not  have  come  here;  I 
should  have  remembered  I  could  not  come  in  and  out  now 
as  I  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Was  everybody  in  this  neighborhood  in  the  habit  of 
coming  here  when  he  was  a  boy?"  demands  she,  increasing 
anger  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no!  And  some  of  us  were  girls  then,"  says  Dick 
demurely,  but  without  daring  to  smile. 

She  regards  him  fixedly  for  a  full  minute,  as  though 
haughtily  suspecting  him  of  undue  levity,  and  then,  with 
a  sudden,  light  movement,  springs  to  the  ground. 

"I  am  Dolores  Lome!"  ehe  says,  standing  erect  before 
him,  with  her  pretty  head  updrawn,  us  though  to  let  him 
see  who  is  mistress  in  this  territory. 

Dolores!  What  a  sad  little  name!  With  a  pang — 
even  in  this  early  moment  of  their  acquaintance  it  is  with 
a  distinct  pang — he  feels  that  in  some  vague,  indefinite 
fashion  the  name  suits  her. 

"And  I  am  Dick  Bouverie,"  returns  he;  "and  very, 
very  sorry  I  disturbed  you." 

"  I  believe  that.  And  now  " — coldly — "you  can  go  if 
you  like." 

"I  don't  like.  I  can't  bear  to  go  away  without  your 
forgiveness,"  says  Dick,  with  such  earnestness  in  eyes  and 
yoice  as  verifies  his  words  and  speaks  for  the  depth  of  his 
contrition. 

"Oh,  well,  you  may  have  that!"  she  tells  him,  looking 
down.  "  And  then — if — if  your  name  is — Dick  Bouverie, 
1  suppose  it  was  your  mother  who  called  here  yesterday?" 

"  Did  she  call?"  says  Dick,  who  knows  well  she  did, 
but,  through  Tory  longing  to  hear  again  the  low  trainanl 
Toice,  pretends  ignoraaie.  And  why  has  she  brought  up 


26  DICK'S    SWEETHEAKT. 

this  question  about  his  mother?  Perhaps  to  soften  the 
cruelty  of  her  dismissal;  perhaps — oh,  goodly  thought!  to 
do  away  with  the  dismissal  altogether! 

"  I  think  it  must  have  been  your  mother,"  remarks 
Dolores,  reflectively,  tapping  her  red  lips  with  her  fore- 
finger in  meditative  fashion,  "a  tall  woman — very  tall — 
with — I  mean — that  is" — quick  confusion  covering  her  as 
she  thinks  of  what  she  has  so  nearly  said — "I  mean  a  very 
tall  woman!" 

This  is  distinctly  lame. 

"  Your  description  is  perfect — a  very  tall  woman,  with 
an  enormous  nose,"  said  Mr.  Bouvene,  sublime  gravity 
marking  every  feature. 

At  this  she  grows  red,  and  glances  at  him  shyly  from  un- 
der her  curling  lashes,  and  looks  down  again,  and  up  again, 
and  finally  they  both  burst  out  laughing.  Laughter  with 
the  young  is  a  quick  road  to  friendship;  but  Dolores  is 
not  as  yet  prepared  to  hold  out  the  right  hand  of  fellow- 
ship. She  checks  her  merriment,  and  stands  back  from 
him  a  little  step  or  two,  and  clasps  her  hands  behind  her. 

"I  think  you  had  better  come  in  and  see  auntie,"  she 
says,  with  increased  dignity — "  that  is,  if  indeed  you 
meant  to  pay  her  a  visit  this  evening" — glancing  at  him 
suspiciously. 

"Certainly  I  meant  it.  I  came  here  purposely  to  see 
her  with  a  message  from  my  mother  about  pelargoniums." 

"What  about  them?" 

"Well,  that's  just  it,  you  see,"  says  Dick,  with  a  con- 
fiding smile.  "  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea.  I  assure  you 
I  knew  all  about  it  the  moment  before — before  1  entered 
this  garden;  but  it  is  all  gone  out  of  my  head  now.  Was 
she  to  offer  your  aunt  some,  or  was  your  aunt  to  give  her 
some?  She  told  me  she  had  called,  and — " 

"I  thought" — turning  large  convicting  eyes  upon 
him — "you  said  just  now — or  at  least  you  gave  me  the 
impression — that  you  did  not  know  your  mother  had  been 
here  at  all?" 

"Did  I?  You  see — there  it  is  again!  I  have  such  a 
wretched  memory,"  says  Dick,  mournfully.  "  At  least  I 
have  now — I  hadn't  this  morning!  It  must  be  something 
4ft  the  air  of  your  garden." 

"Don't  scold  my  garden!    It  hat  the  sweetest  air  on 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  27 

earth,"  says  Dolores,  with  decision.  "  And  see — there  is 
auntie  standing  in  the  window!  Come  to  her." 

With  all  the  demeanor  of  one  escorting  a  condemned 
felon  to  the  gibbet  she  leads  him  toward  the  open  window 
of  the  draw  ing- room,  where  a  tall,  dark  figure  can  be 
descried  looking  in  their  direction.  A  few  stone  steps 
lead  from  the  terrace  to  the  veranda,  and  up  these  per- 
force Mr.  Bouverie  follows  his  captor. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  trespasser,  auntie,"  says  this  last 
awful  personage,  slipping  her  hand  within  Miss  Maturin's 
arm,  and  confronting  Dick  with  a  menacing  air.  "I 
found  him  in  my  own  grounds,  without  permission, 
and—" 

"I  think  it  was  I  found  you,"  interposes  Mr.  Bonverie 
mildly. 

But  his  weak  attempt  at  defense  is  treated  with  con- 
tempt. 

"  He  could  give  no  proper  account  of  himself,"  says 
his  jailer  sternly,  "so  I  have  brought  him  to  you,  to  do 
with  him  as  seemeth  good  in  thine  eyes." 

'•  Don't  be  hard  on  me,  Miss  Maturin,"  entreats  Dick, 
advancing.  "  I  have  been  so  browbeaten  and  generally 
frowned  down  already  that  I  have  little  resistance  left  in 
me.  I  can  just  barely  remember  that  my  name  is 
Bouverie;  but,  beyond  that,  my  mind  is  a  blank." 

"  Nay,  then,  I  think  you  have  been  punished  enough," 
says  Miss  Maturin,  smiling.  "  Come  in,  and  let  us  begin 
our  acquaintance  under  more  auspicious  circumstances." 

''That  means  under  the  shadow  of  the  tea-tray,"  says 
Miss  Lome,  saucily,  turning  upon  Dick  a  sudden  bright 
smile  that  puts  formality  and  unfriendliness  to  flight  at 
once  and  forever. 

It  is  a  very  pretty  room  they  enter,  smelling  sweetly  of 
gay  Indian  mattings.  Quaint  tables  and  chairs  are  scat- 
tered broadcast,  aud  Persian  rugs  of  divers  colors  lie  here 
and  there.  There  are  two  large  Sevres  bowls  filled  with 
nx-es,  cream  and  white  and  yellow;  and  a  few  red,  a  still  fewer 
blue  monsters  standing  on  carved  cabinets,  with  gaping 
jaws  and  goggle  eyes;  some  Nankin  china;  some  hideous 
Hindoo  idols;  a  few  choice  modern  water-colors  on  the 
painted  walls,  and  a  good  many  Eastern  and  European 
gimcracks  of  one  sort  or  another  mixed  up  in  a  charming 
confusion  all  over  the  place. 


28  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"And  where  did  you  find  Dolores?"  asks  Miss  Maturim 
presently,  when  she  has  found  out  that  he  does  like  sugar 
and  is  very  fond  of  cream.  But  he  is  not  allowed  to 
answer. 

"  In  my  own  garden — my  sanctuary,"  says  the  mistress 
of  that  sacred  spot.  "  I  was  in  my  hammock,  breathing 
the  air  of  heaven,  and  lost  in  dreams," — with  a  little 
quaint  dramatic  action  of  the  hand — "  when  he  came  to 
me." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that — glad  that  you  found  her  resting,  I 
mean,"  remarks  Miss  Maturin,  tenderly.  "She  runs 
about  too  much,  Mr.  Bouverie;  she  overexerts  herself. 
For  one  moment  in  the  day  she  will  not  be  still.  I  have 
had  that  hammock  put  up  on  purpose  for  her,  that  she 
might  take  a  little  rest  now  and  then." 

*'  Miss  Lome  has  not  been  without  rest  to-day  at  least," 
says  Dick.  ' '  I  found  her  sound  asleep  in  that  self-same 
hammock." 

"Asleep!  In  the  open  air!  Oh,  Dolores,  I  hope  not," 
says  her  aunt,  with  quick  dismay.  "  You  know  how  deli- 
cate your  chest  is;  and  to  sleep  in  the  open  air!  Dear 
child,  how  careless  of  you!" 

"It  was  but  for  a  little  moment" — penitently — "and 
indeed  I  don't  know  how  it  happened;  but  I  was  lying 
there  blinking  at  the  hot  sun  as  he  glanced  at  me  through 
the  rustling  leaves,  and  somehow  I  lost  myself  in  a  day- 
dream, and  a  little  lulling  wind  came  to  me  across  the 
roses,  and  then  I  knew  nothing  more  until  my  day-dream 
became  a  real  one — a  short  one,  though,  because  some 
kindly  fairy  whispered  to  me  that  an  ogre  had  entered  my 
land;  and  so  I  awoke." 

"An  ogre!  Alas,  Miss  Lome,  have  I  deserved  all 
this?" 

"  Well " — with  sweet  relenting — "  I  will  confess  to  you 
I  was  going  to  say  a  prince;  but  I  didn't  think" — mis- 
chievously— "you  deserved  all  that!" 

"If  Mr.  Bouverie  was  the  one  to  release  you  from  that 
treacherous  slumber — so  sure  to  give  you  cold — I,  for  one, 
not  only  forgive  him  his  trespass,  but  thank  him  sincerely 
for  his  well-timed  arrival,"  says  Miss  Maturin. 

"After  all,  I  believe  I  am  grateful  to  him  too,"  de- 
clares Dolores  lightly.  "  My  dream  was  of  an  evil  thing, 
and  I  was  glad  te  be  rescued  from  it.  Was  I" — turning 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  89 

to  Bouverie — "  frowning  when  you  saw  me  first,  as  though 
frightened,  or — " 

"No;  on  the  contrary,  you  seemed  to  be  enjoying  the 
sleep  of  the  just." 

"I  should  have  looked  distressed — I  think  I  felt  it 
How  " — with  childish  curiosity — "  did  J  look  then?" 

"As  though  you  dreamed  of  heaven,"  says  Bouverie, 
with  such  grave  and  sudden  earnestness  that  it  almost 
seems  as  if  the  words  come  from  him  without  volition  on 
his  part. 

Dolores,  as  though  startled,  turns  her  eyes  to  his; 
something  she  sees  there  shortens  her  gaze,  and  the  faint- 
est tinge  of  crimson  creeps  beneath  the  cream  white  of 
her  skin.  Her  long  lashes  flicker  shyly,  and  then  her 
eyes  droop. 

"  She  stood,  and  hung  her  visage  down  alow." 

Bouverie,  angry  with  himself  in  a  vague  manner  about 
something  he  barely  understands,  looks  out  of  the  window 
upon  the  fast-falling  twilight  that  is  dusking  all  the 
land  and  casting  a  gray  mantle  over  the  pale  ocean  down 
below. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Maturin — who  has  seen  nothing — is 
talking  to  a  disgracefully  absent  audience. 

"  That  is  where  your  dreams  should  come  from,"  she 
is  saying  pleasantly,  her  heart  in  her  words,  her  eyes  on 
the  cream  ewer.  "  All  a  pretty  maiden's  dreams  should 
come  straight  from  the  skies." 

"  Mine  came  from  some  other  place,"  returns  Dolores, 
whose  faint  troubled  thought  has  vanished.  "  It  was  a 
cruel  vision,  so  slight,  so  shadowy,  I  could  not  grasp  or 
put  it  into  words  even  if  I  would;  but  still  I  know  it  was 
framed  by  evil." 

"  Tut,  you  silly  child!  What  should  you  have  to  do 
with  such  a  word?  It  should  be  unknown  to  you,"  says 
Miss  Maturin  fondly.  "  Dreams  are  but  reproductions  of 
aur  thoughts  and  actions  in  one  form  or  another.  They 
are  shaped  obscurely  from  our  surroundings.  Now  from 
what  corner  of  yonr  life  could  you  call  forth  a  troubled 
recollection?" 

"  And  yet  it  oppressed  me,"  says  the  girl  dreamily.  "  I 
seemed,"  slowly  putting  out  one  hand,  "going — going — 
parting:  from  all  I  .lovad^-ainkinff  into —  No*  I  can  not 


30  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

recall  it — I  will  not" — with  a  quick  shudder — "yet  I 
know  it  prophesied  trouble.  And — your  own  words, 
auntie  " — with  a  swift  glance  at  her — "  we  must  all  know 
ihat,  must  we  not?" 

"  Not  all,"  puts  in  Bouverie  impulsively;  yet,  as  he 
nays  it,  a  cold  wave  seems  to  rush  across  his  heart.  Does 
there  in  the  mysterious  future  live  a  day  when  he  shall 
eee  those  sofb  clear  eyes  dull  with  grief's  knowledge, 
those  warm  red  lips  pale  and  cold,  the  whole  fair  lovely 
face  haggard  with  a  torment  that  knows  no  hope? 

"  Yes — all,"  says  Dolores  slowly.     "  Ask  auntie." 

"  No,  no!"  murmurs  Miss  Maturin  nervously. 

"  There  is  no  rule  without  an  exception,"  declares  Dick 
ayly.     "  Let  you,"  to  Dolores,   "be  the  brilliant  one." 

e  laughs;  but  to  any  one  intimate  with  him  it  would  be 
known  that  his  gayety  costs  him  an  effort.  "  My  mother, 
for  example,  is  another.  She  has  had  an  uncommon  good 
life,  taking  it  altogether;  trouble  and  she,  so  far,  have 
been  anything  but  friends." 

"Then  her  time  is  yet  to  come,  as  is  mine,"  persists 
Dolores,  with  a  smile  that  half  kills  the  fatality  of  her 
words. 

"If  you  get  through  as  much  of  your  life  as  my  motner 
has  of  hers  without  coming  to  grief,  you  won't  have  much 
to  complain  of,"  retorts  Bouverie,  with  a  persistence  al- 
most as  keen  as  her  own. 

"  3Tet  she  can  not  escape  altogether,  if  there  be  justice 
meted  out,"  says  the  girl,  shaking  her  head  prophetically, 
"and  in  truth  I  do  not  deem  her  so  entirely  fortunate. 
For  myself,  I  should  wish  my  miseries,  if  they  are  to  be, 
to  come  early,  so  as  to  have  them  over  before  night  de- 
scended. Of  your  grace,"  glancing  at  Bouverie,  with  a 
soft  laugh,  "  pray  that  for  me.  The  worst  evil,  to  my 
thinking,  that  could  befall  me  would  be  to  find  myself  in 
my  old  age— if,  indeed,  wnich  may  not  be,  that  old  age  be 
mine — cut  off  from  hop«  and  gladness  and  content.  Let 
Borrow,  if  it  is  to  be,  come  to  me  now,  when  I  am  young 
and  strong  to  bear." 

"What  are  you  saying,  Dolores?"  exclaims  Miss  Mat- 
urin,  rising  suddenly  from  the  tiny  spindle-legged  table 
on  which  the  tea-tray  is  set.  "  What  have  you  to  do 
with  sorrow,  or  pain,  or  death?  Forget  such  things,  and 
think  only  of  the  sun,  the  flowers,  and  your  friends  the 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  81 

linging-birds!  Do  not  tempt  fate  to  shower  upon  you  iti 
worst  gifts." 

"  That  hammock  is  badly  slung.  I  am  sure  of  it," 
•ays  Bouverie  lightly.  "  If  Miss  Lome  is  unlike  herself 
to-day — I  am  of  course  " — hesitating — "  too  new  an  ac- 
quaintance to  mark  a  difference  in  her;  but,  if — " 

"  Nay,  say  what  you  first  intended,"  interrupts  Miss 
Maturin,  giving  one  of  her  kindest  smiles.  "  A  friend  I 
hope  you  will  be  to  us." 

"  A  certainty  leaves  no  room  for  hope,"  returns  he 
gracefully. 

There  is  to  him  an  irrepressible  charm  in  the  calm,  slow 
tone*  and  kindly  glances  of  the  elder  woman — a  sense  of 
rest,  too,  and  a  knowledge  of  sure  help  in  time  of  need  iu 
the  quiet  power  of  her  dark  handsome  face. 

"  At  what  shrine  did  you  learn  your  courtly  phrases?" 
asks  Dolores,  with  a  would-be  scornful  glance.  All 
clouds  have  vanished  from  her  face;  she  is  again  the  gay, 
happy,  debonair  child  of  a  moment  since. 

"  You  are  a  saucy  baby!"  says  Miss  Maturin  lovingly. 
"  Do  not  heed  her,  Mr.  Bouverie;  but  if  you  have  still 
half  an  hour  or  so  to  spare  us,  fill  your  pockets  with  those 
biscuits  there,  and  come  with  us  to  feed  our  swans." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OUT  of  the  garish  day  into  the  cool  sweet  night,  clad 
with  its  myriad  stars!  The  windows  are  all  thrown  wide, 
and  from  within  the  sound  of  the  plaintive  fiddling  creeps 
through  them  to  mingle  with  the  many  harmonies  that 
thrill  the  heart  of  nature  in  the  dark  depths  of  the  sleep- 
ing garden — the  rush  of  tumbling  streams,  the  faint  drop 
of  lazy  fountains,  the  sad  music  of  the  distant  flapping  of 
the  waves  on  the  lonely  shore.  Colored  lamps  are  shed- 
ding pale  tints  of  red  and  yellow  upon  the  limbs  of  the 
gods  and  goddesses  who  are  gleaming  snow- white  in  tha 
moonlight  that  riots  in  glade  and  bower  and  dell. 

It  is  the  evening  of  the  nineteenth,  and  the  rooms  at 
Kingmore  are  filled  to  overflowing,  so  are  the  staircases, 
so  are  the  flower-decked  antechambers  and  the  scented 
conservatories.  The  Duchess,  who  is  in  an  exceptionally 
gracious  mood  and  Quite  on  her  he»t  Behavior— her  eldest 


32  DICK'S    SWEETHEABT. 

girl  having  consented  to  throw  away  her  yonth  upon  a 
modern  if  moldy  Croesus — has  arrived  early,  and  is  now 
making  herself  charming  to  every  one  she  knows;  and  in- 
deed without  meaning  it,  to  many  she  does  not,  her 
glasses  being  but  a  snare  to  her,  and  her  memory  for  her 
country  acquaintance  but  short. 

She  is  dressed  in  a  mustard-colored  gown  and  a  most 
remarkable — but  doubtless  " distinctly  precious" — head- 
gear of  daffodils,  the  originals  of  which  assuredly  never 
grew  on  earth.  She  is  a  huge  woman,  with  a  not  un~ 
pleasing  face,  and  quite  casts  Lady  Bouverie,  beside 
whom  she  is  standing,  into  the  shadt  by  right  of  her 
superior  proportions. 

"  I  can't  bear  those  divided  skirts!"  she  is  saying,  with 
great  acrimony,  directing  a  severe  gaze  at  a  distant  corner 
of  the  room  where  a  young  woman  who  has  found  herself 
unexpectedly  alone  in  her  "short  division"  is  wishing 
herself  dead.  "  The  princess  is  specially  hard  upon  them. 
But  see  there" — waving  her  fan  toward  the  doorway — 
"  who  is  that  just  entering?  A  charming  face — charm- 
ing!" 

The  owner  of  the  charming  face,  advancing  somewhat 
haughtily  up  the  room,  murmurs  a  cold  word  or  two  to 
Lady  Bouverie  and  then  moves  on. 

"What  grace — what  finish!"  says  the  Duchess  admir- 
ingly, whose  own  daughters  have  a  fatal  tendency  toward 
hoydenism.  "  She  is — " 

"  My  niece,"  says  Lady  Bouverie  coldly — "  Audrey 
Ponsonby.  You  knew  her  father — my  brother — I  think; 
but  you  are  so  seldom  at  home  that  Tdare  say  you  never 
saw  her  before." 

"Well,  I  think  not.  I  shouldn't  have  forgotten  her  if 
I  had,"  remarks  the  Duchess  pleasantly.  "  You  are  fort- 
unate in  possessing  so  desirable  a  niece;  she  must  be  like 
a  daughter  to  you." 

"I  am  quite  content  with  my  sons.  ^  have  no  desire 
for  a  daughter;  and  in  no  case  should  I  covet  Audrey," 
replies  Lady  Bouverie  stiffly. 

"Ah" — her  Grace  nods  slowly — "I  have  often  heard 
that  hazel-eyed  people  are  never  very  comfortable!  But 
•he  has  a  face  that  would  do  for  Kate  Hardcastle  very 
nicely,  01  sven  for  Lvdia 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAET.  33 

She  falls  a-musing  after  this  curious  speech,  and  follows 
Audrey's  departing  figure  with  thoughtful  eyes. 

"  I  fear  indeed  she  is  more  stagey  than  dignified,"  says 
Lady  Bouverie,  with  a  subdued  sneer. 

To  her  the  girl  is  utterly  distasteful.  There  is  a  certain 
display  of  insolence  in  the  very  droop  of  Audrey's  lashei, 
an  unexpressed  yet  open  determination  to  revolt  at  any 
moment  against  the  would-be  authority  of  her  aunt  that 
is  known  to  Lady  Bouverie,  and  galls  her  at  times  more 
than  she  would  care  to  acknowledge  even  to  herself. 
An  indomitable  will  matched  against  another  more  in- 
domitable still  breeds  ill-will  ;  and  Lady  Bouverie, 
accustomed  to  carry  all  before  her  on  her  own  ground, 
takes  it  badly  that  this  motherless  child  of  a  girl — as 
poor  as  she  is  fractious — should  decline  to  lay  down  her 
arms  before  her.  Her  poverty  is  in  itself  a  crime,  be- 
cause it  is  a  poverty  that  rubs  itself  persistently  against 
Lady  Bouverie  and  claims  kinship  with  her.  Unkind 
fortune  made  this  girl's  father  her  brother;  and  to  have 
almost  at  one's  gates  a  brother  compelled  to  educate  boys 
and  young  men  as  a  means  toward  gaining  his  daily  bread 
is  as  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  her  whom  chance  has  raised 
beyond  such  sordid  considerations  as  the  possible  non- 
payment of  one's  butcher  or  baker,  or  the  consequences  to 
follow  on  the  spending  of  a  shilling  more  or  less. 

Had  Providence  so  ordered  it  that  Mr.  Ponsonby's  lines 
had  been  laid  in  places  far  remote  from  Deadmarsh,  Lady 
Bouverie  would  have  felt  devoutly  grateful;  but  Provid- 
ence so  far  had  forgotten  to  humor  her  prejudices,  and 
Mr.  Ponsonby  ground  Greek  and  Latin  and  conic  sections 
into  the  ears  of  his  pupils  within  a  mile  or  so  of  the  sacred 
precints  of  Kingmore. 

Lady  Bouverie  would  gladly  have  forgotten  all  thos« 
early  beggarly  days  when  she  too  had  struggled  with  an 
insufficient  income,  and  had  to  think  many  times  befort 
permitting  herself  the  extravagance  of  a  new  gown.  Those 
were  days  in  which  Sir  George — then  only  Mr.  Bouverie 
and  a  second  son,  and  by  no  means  weighed  down  with 
wealth — had  been  considered  as  a  blessed  chance  of  escape 
from  the  petty  worries  of  a  straitened  household;  but  now 
— well,  now  she  is  Lady  Bouverie  by  a  fortuitous  acci- 
dent, and  even  to  be  reminded  of  that  moneyless  unpleas- 
ant past  is  hateful  to  her.  She  had,  by  her  own  exertions 


34  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

and  the  aid  of  Sir  George — to  his  everlasting  regret,  be  it 
said — raised  herself  from  her  depressing  surroundings  to 
a  very  much  higher  estate;  and  now  to  be  reminded  of 
them  daily  by  this  insolent  girl  and  her  gentle  but  scarce- 
ly less  aggravating  father  is  bitter  indeed  to  the  ambi- 
tious woman.  With  eyes  askance,  she  has  gone  through 
life  glancing  at  Audrey,  the  girl's  independent  ways  and 
.scornful  determination  to  reject  all  patronage  having  an- 
gered the  older  woman  past  forgiveness.  Indeed  Audrey's 
dislike  to  her  aunt  has  spread  as  far  as  her  aunt's  sons; 
and,  though  to  Bruno  she  grants  a  half-hearted  friend- 
ship, she  is  in  spirit  unjust  to  Dick.  Between  her  and 
him  there  is  ever  a  smoldering  feud  lively  to  burst  into 
flame  at  any  moment. 

Thus  unsupported  by  those  who  should  be  her  natural 
protectors,  Audrey's  strange  repellent  ways  have  gained 
her  few  friends  in  the  neighborhood.  Life  in  Deadmarsh 
— as  this  part  of  the  country  is  called — is  not  easy  to  the 
pretty,  or  to  those  imbued  with  that  lightest  art  of  nat- 
ure named  coquetry.  One  must  hardly  dare  here  to  enjoy 
one's  self  without  reserve.  Laughter  must  be  subdued, 
originality  of  speech  or  thought  suppressed,  marked  action 
eschewed.  To  be  good  is  to  be  decorously  dull;  there 
must  be  no  consenting  to  idle  admiration  from  the  oppo- 
site sex — no  flaunting  of  obnoxious  fact  that  this  one 
can  command  attention  where  other  people's  daughters 
can  not. 

Miss  Ponsonby,  now  and  then  preferring  a  pathway  of 
her  own,  is  regarded  with  great  disfavor  by  her  neighbors; 
and  indeed  it  can  not  be  said  that  she  has  in  any  way 
sought  to  propitiate  their  ill-will,  certain  caustic  words  of 
hers  that  have  been  bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth  having 
scarcely  tended  to  enhance  her  popularity.  There  was, 
for  instance,  that  saucily  veiled  hint  about  Mr.  Drum- 
mond's  father,  who  had  undoubtedly  had  a  good  deal  to 
do  with  sugar.  "  Sweets  to  the  sweet,"  said  Audrey  to 
Mrs.  Drummond's  bosom-friend  the  vicar's  wife,  speaking 
directly  of  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  a  broader  word  or  two 
still  here  and  there  that  left  no  doubt  on  the  hearer's 
mind  that  sugar  was  the  "sweet"  more  particularly 
meant.  The  vicar's  wife,  Mrs.  Dovedale,  being  of  a  com- 
municative turn  of  mind,  and  herself  of  unexceptionable 
birth — her  father  a  fourth  baronet — had,  with  much  uno- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  35 

tion  ant.  upraising  of  brows  and  the  greatest  delicacy  and 
hesitation,  retailed  to  her  friend  all  that  Audrey  had  said, 
and  a  little  more;  whereon  dire  hatred  for  Audrey  had 
sprung  to  life  in  Mrs.  Drummond's  breast. 

More  especially  to  the  matrons,  mothers  of  unmarriage- 
able  girls,  is  Audrey  a  bete  noire — mothers  of  ugly  girls, 
silent  girls,  silly  girls,  who  line  the  walls  in  pathetic 
loneliness  whilst  she  dances,  or  sit  in  hopeless  isolation 
over  dull  albums,  after  dull  dinners,  watching  Audrey 
with  sullen  envy  where,  in  some  distant  part  of  the  room, 
she  is  commanding  the  homage  of  half  a  dozen  men,  each 
one  of  whom  would  think  himself  doubly  fortunate  if,  by 
that  indescribable  movement  of  the  hand  which  pretty 
women  know,  she  should  draw  her  skirts  aside  and  grant 
him  the  uncomfortable  edge  of  the  ottoman  on  which  she 
may  be  seated.  For  those  great  lambent,  hazel  eyes,  half 
insolent,  half  satiric,  have  a  power  to  charm  the  ungentler 
sex  that  lesser,  milder  beauties  lack. 

"Is  there  any  hope  that  I  may  get  a  dance  from  you 
to-night?"  asks  Mr.  Vyner,  emerging  from  a  curtained 
recess  as  Audrey  passes  by  on  the  arm  of  a  young  and  gal- 
lant  Plunger. 

For  an  instant  she  hesitates;  then  she  says,  slowly: 

"  You  can  have  the  next,"  a  half  tone  of  unwillingness 
in  the  sweet  petulance  of  her  voice. 

"The  next  is  a  quadrille.     Do  you  call  that  a  dance?" 

"No?    Better  not  have  it,  then." 

"Half  a  loaf,"  suggests  he,  cheerfully.  "Yes,  I  will 
have  it,  though  I  must  consider  it  the  shabbiest  bit  of 
dough.  Hark  to  the  opening  bars!  Let  us  fly  from 
them." 

She  lays  her  hand  mechanically  upon  his  arm,  lets  a 
stray  indifferent  smile  wander  toward  the  obliterated 
Plunger,  and  finally  finds  herself  in  a  cool  retreat  on  a 
velvet  lounge,  with  Mr.  Vyner  beside  her. 

"  You  were  early  to-night,"  he  says,  as  an  introductory 
opening  to  the  coming  tUe-ci-tete. 

"1  meant  to  be  late,"  she  returns  absently;  "but  Sir 
Chicksy  was  dreadfully  in  earnest.  He  is  young,  you  see. 
A  dance  is  still  something  to  him." 

"A  dance  with  you,  I  dare  say." 

"Then  dad   was  fidgety,  too.     He  is  always  in  such 


36  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

excellent  time  himself  " — with  a  short  laugh — "that  ha 
naturally  likes  to  see  others  up  to  the  mark  as  well." 

"Have  I  lived  to  hear  you  sneer  at  '  dad  '?"  asks  Vyner, 
with  an  assumption  of  tragic  astonishment. 

A  moment  later  he  is  sorry  for  his  words.  The  girl 
flushes  a  painful  crimson,  and  for  an  instant  the  proud 
lips  quiver. 

"  Sneer  at  dad!"  she  cries,  with  angry  haste.  "  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Vyner. 

"Never  say  that  to  me  again!"  exclaims  she,  with  a 
flash  from  her  handsome  eyes.  "  Do  you  hear?  You  are 
the  last  who  should  say  it  or  think  it."  Then  her  sud- 
den grief  or  passion,  whichever  it  is,  dies  away,  and  her 
face  grows  even  paler  than  before.  "  How  charming 
Mrs.  Wemyss  is  looking  to-night!"  she  says,  with  such 
calm  every-day  carelessness  as  startles  him  after  her  late 
burst  of  vehemence. 

"  That  might  be  said  of  half  a  dozen  people — of  you, 
for  example;  it  is  no  great  thing  to  say." 

"  Her  costume  at  least  is  beyond  reproach." 

"Is  it?  A  little  pronounced,  perhaps;  but  of  course 
widows  can  allow  themselves  a  good  deal  of  license.  For 
my  own  part,  I  prefer  yours." 

"Mine!"  She  glances  down  at  her  dress  and  smiles 
contemptuously.  "  Why,  this  gown  is  an  heirloom!"  she 
says,  with  a  faintly  bitter  smile.  "  All  the  county  knows 
it  by  this  time.  No " — quickly,  as  though  fearing  or 
guessing  some  thought  of  his — "  dad  would  give  me  an- 
other— twenty  others  if  he  could;  but  he  can't,  simply. 
We  are  savages,  he  and  I;  we  live  upon  the  boys,  and 
even  they  scarcely  suffice  us.  I  don't  know  why  I  tell 
you  all  this;  you  knew  it  so  well  before — you  should, 
having  been  a  boy  of  dad's  yourself  once." 

"And  a  very  grateful  boy,  too,  for  a  few  other  things 
besides  the  fact  that  I  have  escaped  from  your  cannibal 
clutches  whole  and  entire.  But  why  abuse  your  personal 
appearance?  I  see  no  one  in  the  room  to-night  who  looks 
better  dressed  than  you  do." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  that,  to  be  agreeable,  one  must  so 
often  be  a  liar!"  gays  Miss  Ponsonby,  slowly  flicking  her 
fan  to  and  fro. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  37 

"  What  a  dear  little  speech!"  returns  Vyner;  and  then 
he  laughs. 

The  water  of  a  small  fountain  somewhere  behind  them 
is  dropping  musically  into  its  basin;  a  cool  wind  is  rush- 
ing through  an  open  window.  Miss  Ponsonby,  still  idling 
prettily  with  her  fan,  no  doubt  appreciates  to  the  full 
the  enjoyment  of  the  moment,  because  no  words  fall  from 
her  to  break  its  spell. 

"  You  have  carried  me  back  somehow  to  the  old  days," 
says  Vyner,  presently.  "Just  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
can  see  you  again  as  you  used  to  be  when  quite  a  little 
girl,  with  long  soft  hair  almost  down  to  your  toes,  and 
eyes  a  great  deal  too  large  for  your  face." 

"What  a  fetching  picture!" 

"  It  was — very — one  seldom  sees  anything  like  it  now. 
But,  though  you  were  pretty,  I  don't  think  you  were  quite 
a  nice  little  girl." 

"No:  I  know  I  wasn't — to  you.  How  I  hate  those 
quadrilles  from  ' Madame  Angot!  Don't  you?" 

"You  used  to  tyrannize  over  me  abominably." 

"  That  need  not  trouble  you,  seeing  I  can  not  tyrannize 
over  you  now." 

"  ft  is  not  poetical  justice,  however.  To  have  things 
properly  balanced,  I  should  be  able  to  tyrannize  over  you 
by  this  time." 

"  *  Two  stars  keep  not  their  motion  in  one  sphere,' w 
quotes  she,  with  a  cold  smile. 

"  You  are  still  a  tyrant,  then?" 

"  At  least  I  would  not  submit." 

"Do  you  remember  that  day  in  the  orchard,"  asks  Vy- 
ner, presently,  with  a  laugh  of  irrepressible  enjoyment, 
"  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  doing  Euclid,  but  was  in  re- 
ality stealing  apples  for  you,  and  '  dad '  came  in  and 
caught  us?  and —  By  Jove,  how  long  ago  It  all  seems 
now!" 

"  So  long  that  it  has  entirely  slipped  from  my  mem- 
ory. There  were  so  many  boys  off  and  on,  and  so  many 
of  them  stole  apples  for  me." 

"  Well,  they  were  pleasant  days  enough,  even  though 
you  decline  to  grant  them  the  small  courtesy  of  a  passing 
remembrance.  We  were  very  good  friends  then,  you  and 
I.  Do  you  know" — glancing  deliberately  at  her — "I 
think  I  used  to  b*  *•"«  With  jou  then?" 


38  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"I'm  very  thankful  the  folly  did  not  grow  beyond  the 
'then,'"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  raising  her  lids  languidly 
and  gazing  at  him  with  a  full  insolent  look. 

"  So  am  I  for  some  reasons.  It  would  hardly  hava 
suited  either  of  us,  would  it?" 

"  It  would  not  have  suited  me,  certainly." 

"Not  now;  then,  at  least,  you  tolerated  me.  It  is  ab- 
surd, almost  presumptuous  to  remember  it.  But  do  you 
know  in  those  by-gone  days,"  says  Vyner  lightly,  "  I  used 
to  call  you  my  'little  wife '  ?  Happy  Arcadian  days,  but 
very  absurd — eh?" 

"Very."  Miss  Ponsonby,  with  a  fatigued  air  and  an 
impatient  gesture,  shuts  up  her  fan  and  frowns  slightly. 
"  How  uninteresting  you  can  be  at  times!"  she  says. 
"  If,  as  a  boy,  you  were  as  dull  in  your  tete  a  fetes  as  you 
now  are.  no  wonder  I  treated  you  with  scorn!" 

"Well,  but  that's  just  it,  you  see;  I  don't  think  you 
did  scorn  me,"  says  Mr.  Vyner  mildly. 

At  this  moment,  through  the  open  doorway  that  leads 
into  the  dancing-room,  one  can  see  Sir  Chicksy  Chaucer 
perambulating  aimlessly  about. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  Chaucer  in  evening-clothes 
before,"  remarks  Vyner  thoughtfully,  seeing  she  will  take 
no  notice  of  his  last  speech.  "  How  exceedingly — er — un- 
comfortable he  looks!  They  shine,  but  he  doesn't;  they 
are  new,  I  suppose." 

"  And  he — isn't!  You  pay  him  a  very  great  compli- 
ment; yet  six  months  should  make  one  quite  a  dear  old 
friend  down  here,  when  one  is  a  baronet,  unmarried,  and 
with  unlimited  means." 

"You  see  he  has  kept  himself  so  exceedingly  dark  for 
those  six  months,"  remonstrates  Mr.  Vyner.  "  We  have 
•carcely  been  allowed  to  see  him;  now  that  he  has  con- 
descended to  emerge  into  the  fuller  glare — and  in  his  best 
clothes  too — we  all  bow  down  before  him  and  acknowledge 
the  effect — maddening!" 

"I  wonder  why  you  dislike  him  so?"  questioned  Miss 
Ponsonby,  with  a  furious  smile. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  dislike  such  a  bright  and  shining 
light  as  he  promises — his  guardian — to  be,"  says  Mr. 
Vyner  genially.  "  His  name  alone  should  pull  him 
through — it  is  a  miracle  of  art.  Is  there  its  rival,  1 
wonder  P  ShakesaejUM  lias  vyoakly  hinted  that  there  is 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  39 

nothing  in  a  name;  but  he  had  never  heard  of  Sir 
Chicksey's.  Surely  there  is  much  in  it!  Some  name*, 
we  are  told,  '  mock  destruction;  they  survive  the  doom  of 
all  creation.'  Of  such  is  your  friend's;  indeed  I  think, 
if  the  poet  said  it  Clicked  all  creation,'  he  would  have 
been  even  nearer  the  mark." 

"  '  Much  wit  hath  commonly  much  froth,  and  'tis  hard 
to  jest  and  not  jeer  too,'"  quotes  Audrey  demurely. 
"And  even  Sir  Chicksy  has  his  uses.  See  now  what  a 
fund  of  amusement  he  is  to  you!  How  could  you  exist 
without  such  a  one  upon  whom  to  strike  the  brilliant 
matches  of  pure  genius  that  emanate  from  you  so  fre- 
quently?" 

"  You  cover  me  with  confusion,"  says  Mr.  Vyner;  but 
he  does  not  look  confused.  "  I  should  not  dare  to  find 
amusement  in  a  Chaucer!  And  besides,  you  know,  I 
honestly  regard  Sir  Chicksy  as  a  very  nice  ladylike  young 
man." 

"I  know  at  least  you  have  always  a  pretty  tongue!" 
returns  Miss  Ponsonby,  with  a  pale  smile  and  an  angry 
flash  from  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  is  looking  for?"  says  Vyner  pres- 
ently, as  Sir  Chicksy  again  passes  the  doorway,  apparently 
in  ea#er  search  for  something.  "Is  it  for  you?" 

"Very  likely." 

"I  think  he  will  go  mad  if  left  much  longer  in  the 
dark  as  to  your  whereabouts.  Are  you  without  mercy? 
Did  you  note  the  expression  on  his  face  as  he  passed  just 
now?" 

"Did  he  pass  just  now?" 

"Well,  you  could  hardly  call  it  a  passing — it  was  a 
flight." 

"  He  will  the  sooner  get  to  where  he  is  going,  then. 
And  why  should  he  go  mad?" 

"  Too  much  learning!  You  know  what  a  brain  he  has! 
Won't  you  let  him  see  where  you  are,  and  so  ease  the 
strain  a  little?" 

"  If  you  want  to  go — go!"  says  Miss  Ponsonby  abruptly. 
"As  for  me  I  shall  do  very  well  here.  That  Sir  Chicksy 
should  be  looking  for  me  does  not  concern  me." 

"Your  cruelty  is  barbaric." 

"  Is  it  a  necessity  for  you  to  make  silly  speeches?"  aski 
the  girl,  with  such  profound  contempt  as  to  waken  som« 


40  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

faint  amusement  in  the  breast  of  her  companion.  "  I 
am  not  cruel.  I  simply  make  it  a  rule  to  be  happy  when 
possible,  at  all  costs  to  others." 

There  is  something  reckless  and  defiant  in  her  tone  as 
she  turns  her  eyes  to  his. 

"A.  very  sensible  sentiment!"  returns  he  blandly;  yet 
there  is  a  note  in  his  voice  hardly  to  be  desired.  It 
touches  her. 

"  Why  phould  I  consider  others?"  she  asks  sharply, 
noting  and  resenting  it.  "  Do  they  consider  me?  Do  the 
silly  fools  round  here  who  cull  themselves  '  society'  regard 
me  with  even  scanty  favor?  They  turn  aside  from  me 
because  they  have  the  money  that  I  laok  and  I  the  pedi- 
gree that  they  lack.  They  can't  forgive  me  that  last." 

"I  think  you  might  be  content  with  it." 

"  As  long  as  I  know  poverty,  I  shall  never  know  con- 
tent," returns  she,  in  a  low  voice.  "  But  still  that  is  not 
it;  it  is  their  settled  dislike  to  me,  the  drawing  away  of 
their  skirts,  as  it  were,  that  angers  me.  They  shake 
their  heads  and  revile  me,  only  because  I  have  a  lover  or 
two  more  than  their  girls,  and  because — because — well  " 
— with  a  frown — "because  once  or  twice  a  recreant  knight 
has  deserted  their  ranks  for  mine!  Do  you  know  what 
that  yellow-haired  girl  of  Mrs.  Drummond's  called  me 
the  other  day?  'The  recruiting-sergeant,'  and  all  be- 
cause of  Mr.  Allonby!"  She  pales  visibly,  and  tears  of 
passionate  mortification  rise  to  her  large  eyes.  "  I  never 
spoke  to  that  man  twice,"  she  says,  "so  it  wasn't  my 
fault;  and,  whether  or  no,  he  wasn't  good  enough.  But 
I  suppose  her  hair  was  too  much  for  him !  They  accuse 
me  of  making  their  lovers  false.  PahS"  cries  she,  with  a 
shrug  and  a  bitter  wild  little  laugh.  "  I  dare  say  I  am 
not  good  for  much  myself;  but  I'm  good  for  that,  any 
way!" 

"A  proud  boast!"  says  Vyner,  carelessly. 

"Ah!  I  have  no  doubt  you  side  with  them,"  she  re- 
joins, biting  her  lip;  "one  goes  with  the  stream  because 
it  is  least  trouble.  I  don't  know  why  I  talk  to  you  like 
this,  unless  it  is  that  I  must  say  it  to  somebody." 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Vyner. 

"They  dare  to  be  uncivil  to  me  because  dad  takes 
pupila — I  detest  that  sort  of  person." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  41 

"If  so,  I  wonder  that  you  care  so  much  what  'that 
•ort  of  person  '  may  or  may  not  say  of  you." 

"  That  would  be  the  correct  feeling,  of  course,  but  I 
have  no  correct  feelings,  I  think — at  all  events,  I  do  care. 
Oh,  to  be  rich  for  once — enormously  so,  I  mean — to  see 
them  all  cringe  and  fawn  to  me  as  they  do  to  others,  and 
then  spurn  them!" 

"  To  be  rich — if  that  is  your  highest  ambition — is  surely 
within  your  reach.  Remember  " — airily — "  your  face. 
That  is  a  fortune  in  itself." 

"  A  poor  one!" 

"  A  rare  one." 

"  I  would  gladly  exchange  it  for  a  better,"  she  says  dis- 
contedly.  "  It  brings  me  in  but  poor  returns." 

"  Utilize  it  then!"  counsels  Vyner,  turning  to  her  with 
cold  deliberation,  and  gazing  straight  into  the  beautiful 
dissatisfied  face  beside  him.  "  If,  as  you  say,  money  is 
your  idol,  gain  it  at  aill  hazards.  Compel  your  face  to  do 
you  service." 

"But  how?"  asks  she,  half  frowning;  her  tone  is  de- 
fiant, and,  as  though  daring  him  to  answer  her  question, 
she  raises  her  eyes  resolutely  to  his. 

"  Try  Sir  Chicksy,"  replies  he  slowly,  with  an  involun- 
tary curl  of  the  lip. 

Across  the  girl's  face  passes  an  expression  that  would 
have  startled  him  had  he  seen  it.  But,  as  the  insult 
leaves  his  lips,  he  withdraws  his  gaze,  and  is  now  looking 
steadily  at  the  door  beyond.  Her  lids  have  half  closed, 
her  color  has  faded  to  an  ashen  gray,  there  is  something 
that  is  almost  murderous  within  the  shadow  that  has 
fallen  on  her  great  gleaming  eyes. 

Sir  Chicksy,  his  boyish  foolish  face  flushed  with  anxiety, 
at  this  instant  comes  toward  her  with  a  fatuous  srnile. 

"  I — I've  been  all  over  the  place  looking  for  you,"  lie 
•ays;  "  and  now  " — growing  melancholy — "our  waltz  is 
almost  over." 

"  You  shall  have  another  one  to  make  up  loi  it,"  re- 
turns she,  with  such  unwonted  gentleness  that  the  silly 
lad's  heart  beats  heavily  against  his  breast.  "  And  the 
next  time  I  must  tell  you  where  to  find  me,  so  that  there 
need  be  no  disappointment  for  either  of  us." 

She  smiles,  lays  her_kiind  ujgott,  his  arm,  and  moves 


42  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

without  a  backward  glance.     When  she  is  gone,  Vyner 
rises  too,  and  stretches  his  arms  over  his  head  lazily. 

'  Well,  I  was  a  beast,"  he  says  emphatically;  "  but — 
she  deserved  it! " 

The  final  bars  of  the  last  waltz  have  died  away  into  a 
sobbing  silence.  The  greater  charms  of  cool  conserva- 
tories and  empty  corridors  have  weeded  out  the  ball-room 
so  considerably  that  now  one  can  see  without  trouble  wh« 
is  and  who  is  not  present. 

Dick  Bouverie,  moving  here  and  there  among  the 
crowd,  but  chiefly  on  the  staircases  and  in  the  halls,  for 
reasons  best  known  to  himself,  at  last  catches  sight  of  a 
little  fragile  figure  that  sets  his  heart  beating,  standing  in 
a  distant  corner  talking  to  Bruno. 

It  is  Dolores.  For  a  long  time  he  has  sought  her,  and 
now  all  at  once  she  is  there,  standing  out  from  all  the 
others,  a  thing  apart,  as  it  seerns  to  him,  smiling,  radi- 
ant. She  is  clad  in  a  creamy  Indian  silk,  soft  and  cling- 
ing, with  no  sleeves  to  hide  her  perfect  arms,  and  great 
high  puffings  on  her  shoulders.  So  clear  is  her  pure  skin 
that  scarce  one  may  say  where  the  gown  ends  and  her  fair 
self  begins.  Every  word  and  gesture  are  rounded  with 
soft  grace,  each  glance  is  full  of  infinite  variety. 

She  is  talking  gayly  to  Bruno,  with  parted  lips  and 
shining,  happy  eyes  upraised  to  his.  Then,  in  a  moment, 
she  sees  Dick,  and  she  wavers  in  her  speech  to  Bruno,  and 
the  glad  eyes  send  to  the  elder  brother  a  smile  of  quick 
welcome. 

Battling  his  way  to  her  through  the  crowd  of  matrons, 
men,  and  virgins  that  separates  them,  Dick  comes  up  to 
her  presently,  breathless  but  victorious. 

"  Why,  when  did  you  come  ?  "  he  asks,  eagerly.  "  How 
late  you  are  !  " 

He  has  quite  forgotten  to  say,  "  How  d'ye  do,  Miss 
Lome  ?"  or  anything  of  that  sort. 

"  It  is  quite  a  long  time  now  since  we  came,  isn't  it  ?" 
says  Dolores,  appealing  to  Bruno.  "Half  an  hour  at 
least !  Late  ?  Oh,  yes,  we  were  late  !  Auntie  and  1 
always  are,  I  think." 

"How  could  I  have  missed  you  all  this  time? "says 
Dick,  almost  indignantly.  "1  have  been  searching  for 
you  up  hill  and  down  dale  for  an  hour  or  more — it  seems 
like  a  week  or  more,  li  the  truth  be  told." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAET.  43 

She  glances  at  him  quickly,  and  a  little  odd  expression 
crosses  her  face.  She  opens  her  lips  impulsively,  as  if  to  say 
8omething,and  then  repents  herself  apparently  of  her  inten- 
tion, for  she  closes  them  again  without  saying  anything. 
But  she  breaks  instead  into  a  faint,  low,  irrepressible 
laugh. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asks  Dick,  who  can  not  take  his  eyes  off 
her  face,  and  has  therefore  marked  her  hesitation. 

"Nothing,"  returns  she  demurely. 

"Miss  Lome  wants  to  tell  you,  says  Bruno  mildly, 
"  that  to  call  a  search  for  her  up-hill  work  is  rude." 

"Oh,  no — no,  indeed!"  contradicts  Miss  Lome, 
shocked,  flushing  warmly  to  the  very  roots  of  her  short 
Bunny  hair.  "That  was  not  it  at  ail  !  It  was  only — I 
merely  wanted  to  say — that — " 

She  grows  hopelessly  confused,  and  her  eyes  seek  the 
ground. 

"  What  ?"  asks  Dick  again  gently. 

"  Never  mind.  Ask  me  some  other  time,"  murmurs 
she,  with  an  almost  childish  appeal  to  him  not  to  press  the 
subject. 

"  Well,"  he  says  quickly,  "  I  hope  your  card  is  not  full 
yet,  though  I  am  so  late  in  finding  you.  I  dare  say" — 
laughing — "  if  I  had  not  sought  you  so  diligently,  I  should 
have  found  you  long  ago.  What  dance  may  I  have  ?" — 
he  has  taken  her  programme  from  her. 

"  Not  this,"  she  says — "  I  am  engaged  to  your  brother 
for  this — but  the  next,  if  you  will." 

"  And  the  ninth  and  the  fifteenth  ?" — anxiously. 

She  looks  undecided. 

"Oh,  you  will!" — pathetically.  "They  are  the  only 
dances  vacant.  And  remember  what  ill-luck  I  had  in  not 
being  able  to  plead  my  cause  with  you  at  first !" 

His  manner  was  growing  positively  servile. 

"Don't  cry,  Dick,"  entreats  Bruno;  whereupon  they 
all  laugh  a  little. 

"Miss  Lome,  if  you  are  going  to  be  unkind  to  me 
in  this  matter,  you  will  have  much  to  answer  for,"  says 
Dick,  persistently.  "You  would  not  knowingly  consign 
me  to  an  early  grave,  would  you  ?" 

"  Don't  mind  him,  Miss  Lome,"  says  Bruno.  "  He  is 
quite  too  tough  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Yon  take  my 
word  for  it  that  the  grave  won't  see  him  for  years  to  come. 


44  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

If  you  put  faith  in  Dick's  promises  to  die,  you  vr'\\\  be 
disappointed." 

"  Alas,  Mr.  Bouverie,  that  your  word  should  be  so  un- 
reliable!" says  she  mischievously.  "  You  do  protest  too 
much,  it  seemeth  me.  Fewer  words  and  truer  would  be 
better.  Have  you  forgotten  'in  muche  speeche  shine' 
wanteth  not'?" 

"  Well,  punish  me  if  you  will,"  says  Bouverie;  "  though 
,1  deny  my  guilt.  But  understand,  at  all  events,  that,  if 
you  refuse  me  those  two  dances,  you  leave  me  with  noth- 
ing to  do  all  night.  Think  then  of  the  mischief  my  idle 
hands  are  sure  to  commit!" 

"Nothing  to  do?    Go  and  dance  with  all  the  others." 

"There  are  no  others." 

"  No  woman  in  the  room  but  me?" 

"Not  one!" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bouverie!  It  was  true  then  what  your 
brother  hinted  about — about  your  veracity?" 

"  1  maintain,"  says  Bouverie  stoutly,  but  in  a  low  tone, 
"  that  for  me  there  is  no  woman  in  these  rooms  to-night 
save  and  except  yourself." 

A  little  smile  gathers  about  her  lips.  She  casts  a  swift 
glance  at  him,  and  then  looks  down.  Bruno  is  talking 
in  an  interested  fashion  to  some  one  near  them,  so  that 
virtually  they  are  alone. 

"  You  shall  have  your  dances,"  she  murmurs  softly, 
with  an  adorable  blush. 

"To  thank  you  is  impossible!"  says  Bouverie. 

"  Now,  Dick,  do  go  away!"  exclaims  Bruno,  returning 
to  his  charge.  "I  never  saw  such  a  fellow  to  talk  as  you 
are,  and  Miss  Lome  and  I  want  to  finish  our  waltz  and 
our  conversation,  though  we  have  almost  forgotten  what 
it  was  about  now.  Is  my  partner  the  only  one  in  the 
room  that  will  satisfy  you?" 

"It  seems  so,"  says  Dick,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Do- 
lores; then  he  bows  slightly,  and  moves  away  with  a  half- 
formed  intention  of  bribing  the  musicians  to  cut  short  the 
waltz  now  playing. 

"  What  a  beautiful  old  house  this  seems  to  be!*'  says 
Dolores,  when  he  was  gone,  gazing  round  her.  "  Is  that 
the  picture  gallery  down  there?" 

"Yes.     Would  jou  like  to  see  it  by.  lamp-light?    It  is 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  45 

ratner  worth  looking  at  when  it  is  lighted  as  it  is  at  pres- 
ent." 

They  go  slowly  toward  it,  guided  by  the  clear  light  that 
streams  from  its  many  lamps  within  and  makes  quite  a 
little  pathway  of  yellow  glare  all  along  the  shining  oaken 
floor. 

"  We've  been  here,  you  know,  for  centuries/'  says 
Bruno,  as  they  move  leisurely  down  the  almost  deserted 
gallery — "  that  is  not  exactly  Dick  or  me,  you  know,  but 
our  people;  and  there  is  really  nothing  in  the  way  of  ras- 
cality we  haven't  done.  We  are  old  enough  and  disreput- 
able enough  for  anything.  There — that  cavalier  over 
there  with  the  villainous  squint  was  hanged  for  piracy  on 
the  high  seas;  and  the  one  beside  him  was  beheaded  for 
murder  in  some  forgotten  reign;  and  the  little  innocent 
simpering  thing  just  behind  you  poisoned  her  own  hus- 
band because  she  wanted  to  marry  some  other  woman's 
husband.  We  have  been  assassins  and  swindlers  for  a 
sufficient  length  of  time  to  enable  us  to  call  ourselves 
eminently  respectable." 

"  I  don't  think  we  have  any  shameful  story  in  our  fami- 
ly," says  Dolores,  pondering  regretfully. 

"  Then  take  my  word  for  it,  you  are  not  half  so  worthy 
of  regard  as  we  are,"  says  Bruno,  laughing.  "  Look  at 
that  old  colonel  over  there!  Isn't  he  like  Dick?  He  is 
his  great-grand-uncle,  I  think,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"  He  is  like  him  certainly." 

"  Dick's  a  good  sort,  isn't  he?"  says  Bruno,  suddenly, 
turning  to  look  at  her. 

"  A  very  good  sort,  I  should  say,"  she  replies,  smiling. 

"You  should  not  force  Miss  Lome's  hand,"  murmurs 
Dick's  voice  behind  them.  He  looks  down  at  Dolores 
with  an  amused  glance.  "  Do  listeners  hear  bad  of  them- 
selves? I  don't  believe  it,"  he  says.  "This  is  our  dance, 
Miss  Lome,  I  am  glad  to  know." 

"So  soon!"  exclaims  Bruno.  "  Well,  that  was  the 
shortest  waltz  lever  heard  them  play!" 

•'It  really  was,  I  think,"  returns  Dick,  with  an  inno- 
cently thoughtful  air. 

Then  Dolores  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  goes 
down  the  handsome  gallery  and  into  the  ball-room  with 
him.  As  she  does  so,  Sir  George  Bouverie,  who  has 


46  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

draggeu  nhu*elf  away  from  hie  books  to  "  do  the  civil "  to 
his  cousin,  the  Duchess,  exclaims  excitedly; 

"  There  now — who  is  that  with  Dick — eh,  eh?  Who  is 
it— eh?" 

"  A  most  sweet  face  indeed!"  says  the  Duchess  earnestly. 

"That  is  Miss  Lome — the  latest  acquisition  to  our 
society  here,"  answers  Lady  Bouverie,  quite  pleasantly 
for  her. 

"A  very  pretty  one,"  puts  in  her  Grace. 

"  Because  so  freeh;  a  year  will  spoil  her,"  declares 
Lady  Bouverie,  in  her  insolent  fashion. 

"  Meantime  I  admit  she  is  charming.  You  remember 
old  Mr.  Maturin  of  Greylands?  She  is  his  grand-niece, 
and  an  heiress." 

"Is  it  much?"  asked  the  Duchess. 

"  She  will  inherit  Greylands,  we  hear,  and  a  consider- 
able property  in  the  North,  and  all  her  aunt  Miss  Maturing 
money,  which  amounts  to  a  good  sum." 

"  A  desirable  wife  for  some  one,"  remarks  her  Grace, 
smiling;  "and  what  a  face  and  figure  for  an  Ophelia  or 
a — "  She  pauses,  as  though  lost  in  thought. 

"  I  hope  she  will  suit  Richard,"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  in 
her  cold  measured  tones.  "  He  seems  very  attentive  to 
her.  It  is  the  one  sensible  move  I  have  ever  known  him 
make.  Her  fortune  would  be  of  use  to  him." 

"  He  will  certainly  be  open  to  congratulations  if  he 
gains  her,"  observes  the  Duchess,  who  was  a  handsome 
woman  in  her  time,  and  has  still  a  weakness  for  beauty. 

"  So  will  she,  if  she  gains  him,''  returns  Lady  Bouverie, 
with  some  hauteur,  to  whom  even  a  Duchess — in  her  own 
opinion — is  not  a  superior.  But  her  Grace,  lost  in 
abtruse  calculations  about  a  projected  theatrical  enter- 
tainment to  be  given  at  the  Castle  to  propitiate  her 
engaged  girl,  does  not  hear  her.  Here,  in  this  benighted 
village,  where  hope  seems  hopeless,  she  has  seen  two  faces 
full  of  life  and  happy  possibilities;  and,  even  as  she  thinks 
this,  she  sees  the  third. 

"  Who  is  that  pretty  creature  over  there  with — er — yes, 
it  is  your  younger  son,"  she  says  eagerly — "a  small 
woman  in  a  queer  gown,  but  with  a  face  full  of  life, 
vigor " 

"  That  is  Mrs.  Wemyss,"  answers  Lady  Bouverie,  dis- 
approbation in  her  tones.  "  She  is  a  widow,  though 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  47 

not  *  one  indeed' — a  very  frivolous  person,  and  much 
wanting  in  respect  for  her  elders.  'Fast Ms,  I  think, 
the  obnoxious  modern  word  that  would  best  describe 
her." 

"  A  very  speaking  face.  What  an  excellent  '  Constantia 
Neville'  she  would  make!"  says  the  duchess  dreamily. 
"  Is  she — er — anybody?  Nowadays  education  and  dress 
so  unite  the  classes  that  really  one  doesn't  know  to  whom 
one  is  speaking,  and  one  woman  looks  quite  as  well  as 
another;  though,  after  all,  why  should  it  not  be  so?" 
winds  up  her  Grace,  who  is  a  large,  soft,  liberal-minded 
fraction  of  humanity. 

"She  married  the  Honorable  George  Wemyss,  and  her 
father  was  Lord  Brandrum,"  explains  Lady  Bouverie 
tersely. 

"Bless  me!  Is  that  poor  Michael  Brandrum's  daugh- 
ter?" says  the  Duchess,  for  once  forgetting  stage  effects. 
"I  should  have  known  the  eyes.  What  a  '  Lady  Teazle' 
she  could  be.  You  must  present  her  to  me — and  your 
niece  and  that  pretty  child,  Miss  Lome,  as  well.  By  the 
bye,  your  son  seems  interested  in  Mrs.  Wemyss." 

"I  think  your  Grace  is  at  fault  there,"  returns  Lady 
Bouverie  coldly. 


CHAPTER  V. 

'*  LOOK  at  those  lamps  in  the  garden  beyond;  how 
lovely  they  are!  See  " — leaning  eagerly  forward — "  there 
are  people  walking  up  and  down!  Oh,  why  shouldn't  we 
go  there  too?" 

Their  waltz  has  come  to  an  end,  and  they — Dolores  and 
Bouverie — are  standing  on  the  balcony,  from  which  the 
distant,  scented,  lighted  gardens  can  be  seen. 

"Why  not,  indeed?"  says  Dick.  "But  first  I  must 
get  something  to  wrap  round  you " — looking  vaguely 
about  him,  east  and  west. 

"  No,  no;  I  hate  being  muffled  up,  and  the  night  is  BO 
warm  that  I  can  want  nothing." 

"Still,  even  pretense  is  necessary,  as  I  promised  your 
aunt  most  faithfully  to  take  great  care  of  you.  And  see — 
some  providence  has  supplied  me  with  the  means!  Let 
me  cover  your  neck  wilu  this."  "  This  "  is  a  white  silken. 


48  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Indian  shawl,  with  long  trailing  fringes,  which  is  lying 
on  a  couch  hard  by. 

"Che  sard,,  sard,"  pays  Dolores,  bending  her  neck  to 
the  yoke. 

"Now  you  are  like  a  naiad,  a  river-nymph,"  sayg 
Bouverie,  gazing  at  her  with  tender  admiration  when  he 
has  wound  the  shawl  round  her  little  form;  "  and  those 
fringes — they  are  the  dropping  water." 

"  What  a  fanciful  thought!"  returns  she,  with  dainty 
ecorn,  though,  in  truth,  she  is  right  well  pleased  with  the 
compliment.  "And  the  owner  of  this  shawl " — doubt- 
fully— "  what  shall  be  said  to  her?'' 

"To  avoid  the  saying  of  anything,  let  us  make  our  es- 
cape while  it  is  yet  possible,"  says  Bouverie,  taking  her 
hand  and  leading  her  toward  the  steps  that  will  bring  her 
to  the  perfumed  gardens. 

As  they  go  down  these  steps,  some  old  thought  occurs 
to  him. 

"  Why  is  your  aunt  so  careful  of  you?"  he  asks  slowly. 

"  Because  my  mother  was  delicate,"  says  the  girl,  paus- 
ing and  looking  at  him  with  regretful  eyes.  "  She  died 
very  young,  you  see.  But " — the  regret  vanishing,  and  a 
saucy  smile  taking  its  place — "  I  think  the  principal  rea- 
son is  that  auntie  would  be  quite  miserable  unless  she 
were  making  a  fuss  about  me."  She  pauses  here,  plucks 
a  little  bit  of  ivy  from  the  wall,  and  then  says  shyly  but 
anxiously,  "  You  like  auntie?" 

"  I  could  hardly  say  how  much,"  returns  the  young 
man,  with  such  simple  heartiness  as  to  convince  her  of 
his  truth. 

There  is  an  increased  sweetness  in  her  face  as  she  turns 
it  to  him. 

"lam  glad  of  that,"  she  says,  "because" — naively — 
"I  want  to  like  you,  and  I  could  not  if  you  and  Lallie 
were  not  friends."  "Lallie  "is  her  pet  name  for  Miss 
Maturiu. 

"  Well,  now  you  may  like  me  as  much  as  ever  you  will 
with  a  pure  heart,"  returns  Bouverie,  laughing. 

As  he  says  this,  it  occurs  to  him  that  it  is  a  very  pure 
heart  indeed  that  is  looking  at  him  out  of  those  lovely  eyes, 

"  Eyes  of  deep  soft  lucent  hue, 
Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 
Too  lovely  to  be  gray." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  49 

And   yet  they  are  gray  too,  but  dark  and  tender  and 
loving. 

They  have  descended  the  steps,  have  passed  the  ivied 
wall  of  the  house,  and  have  now  entered  the  garden's  en- 
chanted grounds,  where  "  low  and  long  the  shadows 
creep"  over  great  patches  of  silvery  moonshine  to  lose 
themselves  in  quaint  small  beds  filled  full  with  lily  flower* 
arow. 

"  The  moon  came  down  the  shining  stair 

Of  clouds  that  fleck  the  summer  sky. 
She  kissed  thee,  saying,  '  Child  be  fair, 

And  madden  men's  hearts,  even  as  I. 
Thou  shalt  love  all  things  strange  and  sweet.' " 

Looking  at  the  pale  slender  little  maiden  walking  beside 
him,  these  words  involuntarily  come  to  Bouverie's  mind. 
But  silence,  born  of  the  beauty  of  the  scene  around,  has 
fallen  upon  them  both,  and  mute  as  the  sleeping  nature 
upon  which  they  gaze,  they  go  through  the  mists  of  the 
night.  Then  some  little  movement,  some  catching  of  her 
gown  by  an  enormous  rose-bush,  kills  their  silence,  and, 
as  though  not  an  instant  has  flown  since  his  last  speech, 
he  says  slowly — 

"  Do  you  like  me?" 

"You  know  it,"  replies  she  very  kindly,  and  without 
hesitation  or  confusion  of  any  kind.  "  See  here" — stop- 
ping to  lay  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  arm — "  I  will  tell 
you  something!  I  like  you  better  than  anybody  I  have 
met  since  I  came  here." 

A  sudden  and  eager  desire  to  kiss  the  dainty  fingers  of 
this  dainty  speaker  is  at  this  moment  conscientiously  and 
valorously  overcome  by  Bouverie." 

"What?  Better  than  Bruno?"  he  asks,  with  an  affec- 
tation of  lightness,  but  with  real  concern. 

"Pouf — yes!"  exclaims  she,  with  a  dainty  foreign  gest- 
ure and  the  prettiest  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

"  Yet  Bruno  is  more  calculated  to  please  a  little  light- 
hearted  girl  like  you  than  I  am — a  dull  fellow  like  me." 

"  Are  you  dull?"  asks  Dolores,  raising  her  dark  brows. 

"  Base  flatterer!"  says  Bouverie,  with  a  sudden  pleased 
laugh.  "  Yes,  I  am  very  dull,  as  you  will  in  time  dis- 
cover." 

"Ah,  well,  then" — with  a  quaint  sweet  glance — "I 
know  that  dull  people^®  congenial  to  me!  Yet  I  do  no* 


50  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

know" — archly — "  that  your  last  little  speech  altogether 
pleases  me.  *  Birds  of  a  feather,'  say  they,  '  flock  to- 
gether.' If  your  company  suits  me,  that  proves  me  dull, 
too;  your  suggestion  is  not  over-polite;  is  it?" 

"There  is  another  proverb,"  says  he,  "about  'ex- 
tremes meeting/'  That  should  explain  my  seeming  rude- 
ness; and  indeed  to  be  rude  to  you  even  in  thought  would 
require  more  courage  than  I  possess —  Who  else  in 
this  benighted  spot  has  found  favor  in  your  sight?  You 
see,  I  am  only  too  glad  to  believe  your  statement  that  I 
have  at  least  a  small  place  in  your  regard." 

"  Many  people;  but  your  Cousin  Audrey — of  all  my 
women-acquaintances,  I  like  her  best." 

"You  will  find  yourself  alone  in  that  fancy,  I  think," 
says  Dick,  who  does  not  get  on  with  Miss  Ponsonby. 

"No.  Auntie  likes  her  too,  and — and  there  are 
others." 

"Sir  Chicksy,  for  example" — with  an  irrepressible 
laugh  that  is  suggestive  of  mockery. 

"  He  is  very  kind-hearted,"  says  Dolores,  with  a  touch 
of  reproof. 

"  I  dare  say.  I  wonder  if  Audrey  means  marrying 
him?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  hastily. 

"  Why  that  emphatic  ' no'?    She  might  do  worse." 
"  She  might  do  much  better.     And  why  marry  him  if 
she  does  not  love  him?" 

"  To  marry  without  love — is  that  a  crime?" 
"I  think  so." 

"  It  is  committed  daily  then  by  very  estimable  people." 
"  Poor  things,"  says  Miss  Lome,  with  a  gentle  sigh. 
She  seems  so  in  earnest  in  this  speech,  to  feel  so  deeply 
the  importance  of  her  subject,  that  Bouverie's  eyes  seek 
hers  with  a  swift  and  rather  distasteful  curiosity. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  love?"  he  asks,  with  subdued 
sharpness. 

"Why,  nothing!"  returns  she  slowly. 
They  have  passed  over  the  rustic  bridge  now,  and  gone 
beyond  the  sound  of  the  laughter  and  the  light  fall  of 
footsteps;  there  is  a  strange  seductive  calm  on  everything, 
broken  only  by  the  rapid  rush  of  the  stream  as  it  hurries 
ever  onward. 
It  is  the  "mid-hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weep- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  51 

ing"  and  the  moon's  richest  rays  are  cast  upon  the  earth; 
there  is  no  chill,  no  damp  in  all  the  air,  no  touch  of  death 
in  the  glad  luxuriance  of  the  sleeping  flowers. 

The  bridge  is  passed,  and  under  the  dark  myrtles  they 
saunter  slowly  by  grinning  fauns  and  leering  satyrs  and 
wood-nymphs  slim  and  coy.  And  now  they  have  come  to 
another  little  stream  that  no  bridge  spans,  a  tumbling 
merry  baby  of  a  river  that  divides  them  from  a  fairy-like 
spot  which,  because  unattainable,  seems  to  them  even 
more  desirable  than  those  through  which  they  have  been 
wandering. 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  across,"  says  Dolores,  hesitating 
on  the  high  bank  to  look  longingly  over  to  where  the  great 
amber  roses  are  nodding  drowsily  beneath  Diana's  mystic 
rays. 

"  There  is  a  walk  that  will  take  us  round  to  the  other 
side,  but  it  is  a  good  deal  higher  up,"  says  Bouverie; 
"  and  it  isn't  worth  while  our  trying  to  find  it  when  one 
spring  will  land  us  where  we  would  be.  If  you  will  give 
me  your  hand,  I  think  it  can  be  done." 

She  has  gathered  up  the  tail  of  her  white  gown  and 
thrown  it  over  a  bare  soft  arm  that  is  even  whiter;  her 
other  arm  she  stretches  out  to  Bouverie. 

"But  what  if  I  were  to  jump  short?"  she  says 
nervously,  glancing  downward  somewhat  fearfully  at  the 
swift  stream  dancing  so  blithely  in  the  moonlight. 

"Trust  yourself  to  me,"  answers  Bouverie  assuringly. 

The  words,  as  he  says  them,  are  simple  ones,  and  really 
mean  nothing;  but  when  they  are  said,  it  seems  as  though 
an  echo  of  them  comes  back  to  him  fraught  with  deepest 
intent.  In  the  strange  future  that  lies  before  her,  to 
whom  will  she  trust  herself?  And,  if  perchance  to  some 
one  like  him — like  him — how  will  he  discharge  his  trust? 
And,  if  to  another —  His  fingers  close  with  sudden  half 
angry  vehemence  over  hers. 

"Come!"  he  says;  and  to  himself  his  voice  sounds 
harsh. 

She  leans  toward  him,  still  with  her  eyes  upon  the  mivd 
little  river  beneath. 

"  Oh,  it  is  further  than  I  thought!"  she  says,  drawing 
back  a  little. 

Lightly,  but  with  a  certain  determination,  he  slips  hig 
arm  round  her  waist  and  inclines  her  toward  the  stream. 


58  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  Now  spring!"  he  says. 

And  then,  in  another  moment,  she  finds  herself  stand- 
ing beside  him  on  the  opposite  bank,  untouched  by  spraj 
or  running  water. 

"  Well,  you  see,  you  did  trust  yourself  to  me!"  he  is 
saying,  a  certain  irrepressible  gayety  in  his  tone.  He  is 
indeed  feeling  unaccountably,  foolishly  glad  that  at  the 
last  moment  she  has  not  shrunk  from  him. 

"So  I  did.  And,  after  all,  there  was  no  cause  for 
fear!"  returns  she,  smiling. 

Her  hand  is  still  lying  within  his,  clasped  firmly.  She 
has  perhaps  forgotten  to  withdraw  it,  and  he  perhaps  is 
in  no  hurry  to  release  it.  As  she  stands  thus  before  him, 
with  uplifted  chin  and  laughing  eyes  and  dainty  slender 
figure  framed  in  by  yellow  roses,  she  is  looking  even  more 
than  beautiful. 

"Tell  me,"  he  says  earnestly,  "why  you  hesitated  so 
long  about  giving  me  those  two  dances  when  we  first  met 
to-night?" 

"  If  I  hesitated,"  she  answers,  looking  down,  and  shyly 
moving  a  pebble  to  and  fro  with  the  point  of  her  shoe, 
"  it  was  not — not  that  I  did  not  mean  to  give  them." 

"  Yet  you  certainly  thought  twice  before  granting 
them.  Were  they — perhaps — intended  for  some  other 
man?" 

"Oh,  no,"  quickly,  "  indeed  no!  You  must  not  think 
that!" 

"  I  did  think  it.  I  felt  so  sure  of  it  for  one  moment 
that  I  was  very  near  accepting  your  hesitation  as  a  final 
refusal,  and  going  away  heart-broken." 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  says,  smiling,  "lam  glad  you  thought 
better  of  it!  If  " —  raising  her  eyes  for  an  instant  to  his, 
with  a  soft  glance — "  if  you  had  taken  me  at  my  word,  I 
should  have — been — " 

"  What?"  he  asks  eagerly. 

"  Disappointed,"  she  replies  slowly. 

"  I  wish  I  dared  to  believe  that,"  says  Bouverie. 

"  You  may.  Why" —  with  a  little  soft  embarrassed 
laugh,  "  if  I  must  confess  it,  I  had  kept  them  for  you! 
Now  you  believe?" 

"To  disbelieve  wouH  cost  me  too  much.  Though 
*  fairy  gold  be  all  my  guio  '  -nil  I  pr**-'-  to  think  as  you 
would  have  me 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  63 

"  There  is  little  real  faith  in  all  that  speech,"  says  Miss 
Lome,  with  some  slight  indignation;  then  suddenly: 
"  Do  you  know  how  long  we  have  been  here?  Hours,  it 
seems  to  me.  Come,  let  us  return." 

"  There  is  just  one  thing  more,"  protests  he,  detaining 
her.  "  What  was  it  you  would  not  say  to  me  before 
Bruno?" 

"Before  Bruno?" 

"  Yes.  I  had  been  telling  you  of  my  long  and  fruitless 
search  for  you,  when  you — laughed.  I  asked  you  why 
you  laughed;  but  you  would  not  answer  me,  and  only  told 
me  to  ask  you  about  it  some  other  time.  This  is  'some 
other  time.' " 

"Is  it?" 

"  Isn't  it?" 

"What  a  cross-examiner  you  would  make!"  retorts  she, 
with  a  slight  shrug.  "  Well,  let  me  think  about  it.  I 
believe  " — looking  down — "I  am  not  sure,  you  know,  but 
I  suppose" — reluctantly — "I  was  wondering  where  the 
necessity  was  for  your  searching  for  me  at  all." 

"Ah,"  says  Bouverie — something  in  her  tone  has  bitterly 
offended  him — "1  dare  say  it  did  seem  ludicrous  to  you — 
my  anxiety  to  find  you,  I  mean!  It  certainly  sounds  so, 
as  you  put  it." 

"Now  1  have  made  yon  angry!"  exclaims  she,  with  im- 
patient penitence.  "And  why?  Simply  because  I  want 
a  reason  for  your  having  given  yourself  very  unnecessary 
trouble  about  me." 

"  I  should  think  your  instinct  might  have  supplied  that 
reason,"  replies  he  coldly. 

"Perhaps  I  am  without  instinct  then,  because  I  don't 
know!"  declares  she  petulantly.  "At  least,  I  fail  to  see 
why  it  should  not  seem  strange  to  me,  your  wasting  an 
hour  or  so  trying  to  find  me." 

"If  one  coula  not  see  by  your  eyes  that — that  certain 
things  were  impossible  to  you,  one  might,"  begins  he 
hastily,  and  then  as  hastily  checks  himself.  "Regard 
my  conduct  as  a  folly,  then,  if  you  will,"  he  says  stiffly. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  vexed  you,"  says  Dolores,  look- 
ing at  him  strangely.  "  But  yet  I  meant  no  uukindness 
— none.  And  I  do  not  think  it  is  a  good  thing  to  loge 
one's  temper  about  nothing;  do  you?" 

"But  is  it  about  nothing?    Do  you  think  I  don't  want 


64  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

you  to  know — to  understand!"  exclaims  he,  with  some 
suppressed  vehemence.  Then  he  grows  suddenly  calm 
again.  "  If  I  sought  you,"  he  says,  with  deliberation, 
"  it  was  because  I  desired  to  be  with  you — to  see,  to  hear 
you.  That  is  plain  speaking,  at  all  events,  and  will  pre- 
rent  your  being  puzzled  by  me  in  future,  or  regarding  my 
conduct  as  'strange.'  But  why  did  you  so  regard  it? 
Were  there  " — watching  her  eagerly — "no  others  in  your 
life  to  whom  your  presence  meant  what  it  does  to  me?" 

"  A  few — perhaps,"  returns  she,  with  slight  hesitation 
— a  hesitation  he  misconstrues. 

"  For  '  few '  read  '  Legion,' "  he  says  brusquely.  "  Well, 
and  did  all  their  insane  devotion  wake  mirth  within  your 
breast?" 

"No."  She  is  growing  a  little  nervous  now,  and  the 
blood  is  changing  rapidly  beneath  her  transparent  skin. 
"  Many  people  have  been  kind  to  me,"  she  says,  "  and  I 
do  not  think  any  of  them,  except  you,  would  have  called 
theif  attentions  to  me  '  insanity.'  And,  as  for  you,  it  was 
not  'mirth'  I  felt  that  you  should  give  yourself  trouble 
on  my  account,  but  only  surprise."  Then  her  manner 
changes  altogether.  Her  nervousness  vanishes,  she  throws 
up  her  little  stately  head  with  a  proud  gesture,  and  turns 
her  eyes  full  on  his.  "  To  get  back  to  the  house,  is  it  nec- 
essary I  should  cross  the  stream  again?"  she  asks  calmly, 
without  a  trace  of  anger  or  any  undue  coldness — yet  his 
heart  dies  within  him. 

"  Not  unless  you  wish  it.  That  path  I  told  you  of, 
before  we  crossed  it,  will  take  you  even  more  quickly  to 
the  house." 

"  That  is  fortunate.  I  have  delayed  too  long,'*  she  says 
quietly,  turning  away  from  him. 

For  a  little  while  they  are  silent  as  they  go  along  the 
graveled  walk;  and  then,  as  though  unable  longer  to  ab- 
stain from  expression  of  his  fear,  he  says,  in  a  low  voice 
full  of  earnest  entreaty: 

"Let  there  be  no  coldness  between  us  twol" 

"Neither  now  nor  at  any  other  time,"  she  says  softly, 
turning  to  him  with  a  suddeu  friendly  smile. 


SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

hours  are  flying  on  fleet  wings.  Already  the  pale 
early  summer  morning  is  showing  about  the  dark  hill- 
tops. The  Duchess  has  twice  yawned  distinctly,  but, with 
an  estimable  good-nature,  has  forborne  from  leaving,  leat 
a  general  break-up  should  follow  on  her  departure. 

"Any  hope  that  I  may  have  another  dance  with  you?" 
asks  Vyner,  coming  face  to  face  with  Miss  Ponsonby  in  a 
doorway. 

"My  card  is  quite  full."  She  has  met  his  eyes  for  a 
moment;  but  now  her  own  are  turned  contemptuously 
aside,  and  it  is  certainly  the  wall  beyond  ahe  addresses  as 
she  says  this — not  he. 

"May  I  see  it?" 

•'Certainly."  She  lifts  the  little  scented  card  to  her 
fan,  and  waves  U  idly  to  and  fro;  for  an  instant  her  half- 
closed  lids,  insolently  lowered,  are  raised  to  let  the  dark, 
angry  beauty  of  her  eyes  be  seen.  "  A  pretty  programme, 
is  it  not?"  she  says. 

"  May  I  see  the  inside  of  it?" 

"  But  why?  The  inside  of  one  card  is  quite  the  same 
as  another." 

"  Not  always.  And  I  am  anxious  to  see  what  is  written 
in  yours." 

"  You  are  anxious,  in  other  words,  to  see  whether  I  am 
or  am  not  telling  a  lie!"  returns  she,  with  a  soft,  scornful 
laugh. 

"That  is  an  ugly  word  I  All  I  want  to  see  is  what 
names  are  on  your  card." 

"  There  is  no  dance  there  for  you.  In  that  at  least  you 
may  believe  me." 

"I  believe  you  always.  What  you  mean  is  that  you 
refuse  to  give  me  a  dance." 

"  Is  it?"  She  looks  bored,  and  makes  a  slight  move- 
ment, as  if  to  go  into  the  ball-room.  Sir  Chicksy,  who 
is  with  her,  moves  too. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  given  my  dance  away  then,"  gays 
Vyner,  indifferently,  drawing  back.  "  I  regret  very  much 
you  should  have  seen  cau»e  to  do  so." 


56  DICK'S    SWEETHKJLKT. 

"  Did  I  give  you  another?  I  had  forgotten  it.  If  so, 
J  regret  my  seeming  rudeness,"  returns  she,  studied  dis- 
like in  her  tone.  Then  she  sweeps  away  from  him  in  her 
swaying,  graceful,  insolent  fashion,  and  is  lost  in  thi 
throng  of  dancers  beyond. 

"  What  an  insolent  air  that  girl  has!"  says  Mrs.  Drum* 
mond,  the  sugar  merchant's  daughter,  who,  with  her  dear 
friend  Mrs.  Dovedale  beside  her,  has  witnessed  Audrey's 
dismissal  of  Vyner. 

The  speaker  is  a  tall,  stout,  florid  woman  with  a  super- 
abundance of  flesh  and  a  toned  vulgarity  that  breaks  its 
bonds  occasionally  and  asserts  itself  with  a  triumphant 
rush.  Her  companion,  Mrs.  Dovedale,  is  as  perfect  a 
contrast  to  her  as  she — Mrs.  Dovedale — could  possibly  de- 
sire. The  vicar's  wife  is  a  small,  fair,  childish,  innocent- 
looking  little  thing,  with  forget-me-not  eyes  and  a  dimpled 
chin  and  remarkably  thin  lips.  From  those  lips,  so  daintily 
curved,  fall  little  speeches  now  and  then  so  wonderfully 
spiced,  so  delicately  pointed,  so  cruelly  apt,  that  few  care 
to  provoke  them.  Time  has  taught  her  neighbors  to  treat 
this  pretty  little  woman  with  careful  respect.  Time  has 
also  taught  them  to  detest  her  cordially.  Yet,  strange  to 
say,  there  are  few  people  in  all  Dead  marsh  so  universally 
feted  as  quiet  Mrs.  Dovedale. 

"  Yes,  insolent,"  repeats  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  vigor, 
turning  to  her  companion  for  corroboration.  "  And  how 
Mr.  Vyner  detests  her!  I  have  frequently  noticed  his 
positive  aversion.  Haven't  you,  dear?" 

"  I'm  so  wretchedly  unremarking!"  says  Mrs.  Dovedale, 
apologetically.  "  You  will  see  that  when  I  tell  you  I  have 
often  believed  him  rather  attentive  to  her  than  otherwise." 
She  does  not  really  believe  this;  but  the  knowledge  that 
Mrs.  Drummond  looks  upon  Anthony  Vyner  as  a  possible 
suitor  for  the  hand  of  her  daughter  Georgina  compels  her 
to  say  it. 

"  You  are  indeed  wanting  in  penetration  if  you  could 
think  that,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  a  sour  smile — 
"  such  an  uninteresting  girl  as  she  is,  and — so  reprehensi- 
ble in  many  ways!  Why,  even  her  own  aunt,  dear  Lady 
Bouverie,  does  not  countenance  her!" 

"  I  think  she  is  afraid  cf  her,"  remarks  Mrs.  Dovodale, 
with  an  irrepressible  bugii.  "  But,  of  course,  one  can 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  6? 

inderstand  that  she  is  a  trial.     Such  shocking  form,  as 
you  say — quite  inadrnissable!" 

"I  hate  a  settled  coquette!"  declares  Mrs.  Drummond, 
whose  daughter's  lover — because  of  Audrey — has  proved 
faithless. 

Here  the  conversation  suffers  a  slight  break,  because  of 
Audrey's  approach.  She  passes  without  vouchsafing  either 
of  them  so  much  as  a  glance  of  recognition,  disappears 
into  a  windowed  recess  near,  and  sinks  upon  a  cushioned 
lounge, 

"Audrey,,"  says  Bruno  Bouverie,  coming  up  to  her, 
"  the  Duchess  has  expressed  a  wish  that  you  should  be 
introduced  to  her." 

Audrey  flushes.  She  is  out  of  humor,  and  indeed  in 
one  of  her  very  worst  moods. 

"I  have  expressed  no  wish  to  be  introduced  to  the 
Duchess,"  she  answers  sharply,  with  a  frown;  and  then 
ghe  grows  suddenly  pale  again,  and  stands  erect  and 
defiant,  though  inwardly  shocked  at  her  discourtesy,  as 
the  curtains  part,  and  the  Duchess  herself  comes  toward 
her. 

"  Muse  I  then  sue  for  your  friendship?"  asks  her 
Grace,  with  a  smile. 

"I  beg  your  Grace's  pardon,"  said  Audrey,  slowly,  but 
with  a  certain  hauteur  that  belongs  to  her,  and  so 
becomes  her.  "Your  desire  to  know  me  must,  of  course, 
be  regarded  as  an  honor,  though  the  desire  itself  must 
forever  remain  a  mystery  to  me." 

"Tut,  child!"  returns  the  Duchess,  with  an  amused 
glance.  "A  fair  face  is  ever  an  introduction  in  itself,  and 
that  yon  carry  about  with  you,  whether  you  will  or  no." 

"Did  you  mark  that?"  says  Mrs.  Drnmmond  exult- 
ingly.  "She  can  nob  be  civil  even  to  her  Grace." 

"  Hush!  the  Duchess  is  talking  again,"  interrupts  Httle 
Mrs.  DovedaJe. 

"I  have,  besides,  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,"  her  Grace  is 
saying,  in  her  sweetest  manner.  "  My  daughter,  Lady 
Florence,  has  set  her  heart  on  getting  up  some  private 
theatricals  whilst  staying  down  here — just  a  short  play  or 
two.  Will  you  help  her?  We  want  to  get  up  a  little 
company  from  among  our  neighbors  neve" — with  a 
friendly  smile — "and  tour  face  tells  me  you  will  be  a 


OB  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

great  acquisition   to   our  forces  if  you  will  consent  to 
join  us." 

This  is  the  very  essence  of  graciousness,  and  Mrs. 
Dovedale,  watching  her  friend  closely,  can  see  that  her 
face  grows  pale  as  she  listens. 

"  Audrey  can  act  most  parts,  from  a  dairy-maid  to  a 
duchess,"  declares  Bruno,  with  a  little  saucy  laugh  and  a 
glance  at  her  Grace. 

"Very  good,  then;  she  shall  illustrate  me,"  decides 
her  Grace,  smiling. 

At  this  Audrey  raises  her  eyes,  and  a  slow,  pretty  smile 
widens  her  lips. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  says;  "but  you  shall  make  me  the 
dairymaid,  or  anything  else  that  pleases  you!" 

"I  shall  promise  you  a  principal  part,"  returns  the 
Duchess  kindly.  "  And  there  is  a  little  Miss  Lome  here 
to-night,  and  Mrs.  Wemyss,  whose  father  was — a  very  old 
friend  of  mine;  we  must  get  them  to  join  us  too.  And 
you  must  all  three  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
**  the  Castle  for  a  week  or  so,  to  get  things  well  together  " 

"  Di'd  you  hear  that?"  demands  Mrs.  Dovedale,  with 
unpleasant  vivacity. 

"I  heard  her,"  says  M:s.  Drummond,  now  grown  posi- 
tively livid. 

"What  a  pity  she  didn't  ask  Georgina  too!"  murmurs 
Mrs.  Dovedale. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  would  have  done  so  had  she  been 
brought  beneath  her  notice,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  with 
dignity. 

"  Eh — oh,  I  don't  think  Georgina  is  beneath  her  no- 
tice!" protests  Mrs,  Dovedale,  with  generous  correction. 
"  Even  though  she  is  a  Duchess,  I  don't  think" — with 
maddening  misapprehension — "you  need  say  that." 

"  It  will  be  a  terrible  thing  for  you,  dear,  if  this  slight' 
deafness  grows  on  you,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond  tartly  and 
with  ill-suppressed  rage.  "  Georgina  is  a  girl  whom  the 
queen  might  delight  to  honor.  I  simply  meant  that  the 
Duchess  was  unfortunate  enough  not  to  see  her.  Geor- 
gina is  not  a  bold  girl,  like  some  others  I  could  name;  she 
is  not  one  to  push  herself  forward." 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  that,"  returns  Mrs.  Dovedale 
mildly.  "  Indeed  I  know  for  a  fact  that  the  Duchess  did 
*tie  her;  she  took  great  notice  of  her," 


'»  DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  59 

"Dirt  she  indeed?"  exclaims  Mrs.  Drummond  eagerly. 
"  Ah,  she  would,  no  doubt!  There  is  something  striking 
about  my  girl." 

"  Slie  spoke  of  her.  I  was  standing  very  near  her  Uraoe 
at  the  time,  and  could  overhear  what  she  said,"  continues 
Mrs.  Dovedale,  with  a  glance  at  her  friend  full  of  the 
gentlest  encouragement. 

"  Yes — and  what  was  it  you  heard,  dear?'*  asks  Mrs. 
Drummond  with  a  painful  but  useless  effort  to  appear 
indifferent. 

"  She  said  '  Who  is  that  big  girl  over  there  with  the 
hopelessly  uninteresting  face?' "  returns  the  vicar's  wife 
very  sweetly. 

The  color  flames  into  the  placid  cheeks  of  her  com- 
panion. She  turns  venomous  eyes  upon  little  Mrs.  Dove- 
dale,  only  to  meet  the  eyes  of  that  small  lady  calmly  bent 
on  her  with  an  expression  in  them  so  open,  so  guileless,  so 
devoid  of  harmful  intention  as  to  disarm  the  severest  sus- 
picion. 

"  She  could  not  have  meant  Georginal"  says  Mrs. 
Drummond. 

"I.  think  she  did,  because  I  heard  Lady  Bouverie  say, 
in  answer,  '  That  is  a  person  called  Miss  Drummond.'" 

The  "  person  "  does  it!  It  sounds  even  worse  than  all 
that  has  gone  before,  and  more  humiliating.  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond grows  limp  and  loses  courage,  and  literally  goes 
down  before  it.  Alas,  alas,  will  no  one  ever  forget  about 
that  sugar? 

And  now  the  final  break-up  has  come.  The  Duchess 
has  already  gone,  the  carriages  are  thinning.  Dolores  is 
standing  in  the  hall  waiting  for  hers,  whilst  Bouverie, 
with  slow  care,  is  wrapping  her  in  her  cloak  of  ruby  plush. 

"  Awhile  since  I  said  you  looked  like  a  fairy;  I  wonder 
now  how  I  had  the  courage,"  says  Bouverie,  as  he  strug- 
gles manfully  with  the  fastenings.  "In  that  royal  color 
you  look  like  a  queen.  Must  you  go?  How  I  hate  punc- 
tual servants!  One  .moment!" — sinking  his  voice  to  a 
lover-like  whisper,  "  May  I  call  to-morrow?" 

"  Of  course!  It  is  our  day,  you  know;  and — and  I  am 
sure  auntie  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"That  assurance  pleases  me  indeed;  but  there  is  an- 
other that — if  you  could  give  it — would  please  me  infinitely 
more.  Will  you  be  srlad^o  seg  me?" 


60  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  I  shall  indeed!"  She  says  this  very  softly  and  with  a 
shy  sweet  little  blush;  then — "  Good-night" — holding 
out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Good-night.     Good-bye." 

** Until  to-morrow" — smiling. 

"That  means  to-day,"  returns  he  quickly,  unmistaka- 
ble happiness  on  his  handsome  face.  "But  a  few  hour* 
lie  between  now  and  our  next  meeting.** 

"  Ah,  true— I  had  forgotten  that!" 

There  is  a  touch  of  real  pleasure  in  her  tone  which  sets 
his  heart  beating,  and  brings  to  his  lips  words  not  more 
ardent  than  his  thoughts,  but  expressive  of  a  deeper  ten- 
derness than  he  has  dared  yet  to  show. 

"  A  few  hours,"  he  repeats  unsteadily,  "will  bring  me 
to  you  again.  And  until  then,  and  after,  and  forever,  I 
shall  hold  you — and  you  only — in  my  heart." 

Then  the  carriage  door  is  closed  upon  her,  and  her  face 
is  hidden — purposely  turned  from  him,  as  it  seems  to 
Bouverie,  standing  remorsefully  upon  the  stone  steps, 
with  the  chilly  morning  air  beating  upon  his  uncovered 
head.  What  madness  prompted  him  to  say  so  much?  Has 
he  frightened  her?  Has  she  thought  him  unpardonably 
rude?  And  yet  what  a  small,  small  portion  it  was  of  the 
passionate  feeling  that  is  consuming  him! 

Was  she  angry?  Looking  down,  he  catches  sight  of  a 
pale  little  blossom  lying  at  his  feet.  It  was  hers;  she  had 
worn  it  close  to  her  bosom  to-night!  It  now  is  his!  As 
though  it  were  some  fair  messenger  of  peace  from  her  to 
him,  he  lifts  it  gladly  and  carries  it  in-doors  and  up  to  his 
own  room. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

the  upper  part  of  the  lawn,  near  the  tennis- 
ground,  a  good  many  rugs  and  pretty  garden-chairs  are 
scattered  broadcast.  Greylands,  lying  as  it  does  now  in 
the  brilliant  June  sunshine,  is  at  its  best,  with  its  wav- 
ing trees  and  its  glimpse  of  the  cool  green  sea,  its  old  grey 
walls  and  ivied  towers. 

Dolores,  in  a  huge  white  hat  that  makes  her  look  like 
an  overgrown  fairy,  is  moving  here  and  there  in  pretty 
restless  fashion  from  one  viiitor  to  another,  as  though  last 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  61 

night's  fatigue  and  late  hours  are  all  mere  hallucinations 
df  the  brain.  Her  restlessness  is  perhaps  a  little  feverish, 
jier  gayety  somewhat  strained;  but  none  except  those  who 
iove  her  would  notice  it,  and,  as  for  the  rest,  they  vote  her 
manner  even  more  than  usually  charming  to-day.  The 
soft  dark  circles  beneath  her  eyes  only  render  them  more 
rich  in  pathetic  beauty,  the  two  warm  touches  of  carmine 
on  her  cheek  but  serve  to  throw  out  the  dazzling  fairness 
of  her  skin.  She  is  gracious,  courteous,  sympathetic,  as 
ever,  yet  always  her  glance  turns  to  that  corner  of  the 
grounds  whence  new-comers  may  be  expected. 

"  She  is  the  very  prettiest  creature  I  know,"  says  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  with  unaffected  admiration,  turning  to  Bruno 
Bouverie,  who  is  lounging  beside  her.  As  a  rule,  he  is 
always  lounging  beside  her.  It  is  a  flirtation  of  such  old 
standing  now  between  these  two — quite  a  year  in  all — that 
people  have  almost  forgotten  to  gossip  about  it  and  wonder 
over  their  tea-cups  if  it  will  ever  come  to  anything. 

Cecily  Wemyss  is  a  widow,  a  very  young  widow,  and  «a 
very  light-hearted  one.  Indeed,  ever  since  the  death  of 
her  husband,  her  spirits  have  risen  to  such  an  abnormal 
height  that  it  must  be  uncharitably  believed  that  she  was 
heartily  glad  to  get  rid  of  him.  She  is  small,  dark, 
piquant,  a  brunette  in  effect,  pur  et  simple — perhaps  not 
very  simple — with  laughing  eyes  and  merry  lips,  and  hair 
that  finds  subjugation  difficult. 

"I  dare  say,"  says  Bruno.  "But  of  whom  are  you 
talking?" 

"  Of  Miss  Lome." 

"  You  are  right  there  n — with  mild  enthusiasm — *'  she 
is  out  and  out  the  prettiest  girl  I  know." 

"  Is  sher 

"The  prettiest  girl  1"  returns  Bruno,  with  careful  em« 
phasis. 

"Ah!"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss.  Then  she  laughs  a  little, 
and  glances  at  him  from  under  artfully-lowered  lids. 
"  That  last  was  clever,"  she  says. 

She  unfurls  an  enormous  black  fan  and  waves  it  to  and 
fro,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  a  big  bumble-bee,  which, 
made  dizzy  by  the  storm  thus  raised,  falls  heavily,  sleepily 
into  her  lap,  and  begins  explorations  there  amongst  her 
laces.  There  is  a  tremulous  tranquillity  in  all  the  air 
which  soothes  the  senses  and  cinders  speechlessness  no 


62  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

crime,  but  rather  a  necessity.  Quivering  sunbeams  are 
creeping  from  flower  to  flower,  the  swift  stream  at  the  foot 
of  the  lawn  is  making  sweetest  music  as  it  rushes  by  its 
shelving  banks,  where  close  to 

"  The  river's  trembling  edge 
There  grow  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt  with  white." 

"  Still  thinking  of  the  most  charming  being  you  know?* 
murmurs  Mrs.  Wemyss  at  last,  closing  her  fan  with  r 
little  snap,  and  raising  two  great  lustrous  eyes  to  his. 

"  Yes,"  says  Bruno. 

"  She  should  be  flattered.  Five,  six — nay,  seven  min- 
utes— and  all  spent  on  her." 

"  I  have  spent  more  time  than  that  on  her  without 
awakening  any  gratitude  within  her  breast." 

"  It  is  your  modesty  that  makes  yon  say  that.  How 
can  you  know  what  thoughts  are  stirring  in  her  breast?" 

"I  don't  believe  any  thoughts  are  stirring  there;  it  is 
too  frozen  to  admit  of  movement." 

"  Oh,  how  you  malign  her!" 

"  Do  I?    You  should  know  best!" 

"  Then  I  will  prophesy  to  you  that  your  wooing — if 
you  put  sufficient  heart  into  it — will  prosper." 

"If  you  can  assure  me  of  that,  it  is  the  best  news  I 
have  heard  for  many  a  day;  yet  I  have  my  doubts." 

"  A  true  lover  always  doubts.  But  why  should  you 
believe  her  ungrateful?" 

"  She  looks  so." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  think  she  looks  only  happy," 
says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  with  one  swift  glance  at  Dolores,  wh« 
is  laughing  merrily. 

"  That  is  no  good  sign." 

"  What!" — archly.  "  Would  you  have  your  love  al- 
ways on  the  very  verge  of  despair?  That  is  so  like  a 
man!  See  how  much  prettier  she  looks  when  laughing." 

"  She  is  not  laughing." 

"How  can  you  say  that?  What!  Has  Cupid  indeed 
made  you  blind?" 

"I  can  not  see  that  she  is  laughing." 

"  Why,  where  are  your  eyes?" 

"  On  you,"  says  Bruno. 

"  Oh,  then,  of  course  you  can't  see  her  I" 

"I  can,  indeed."  persists  Bruno. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  63 

"  Who?" 

"  We  were  talking  of  my  love,  I  think,  weren't  we?" 
lays  Bruno,  with  an  assumption  of  meekness,  but  with 
the  most  glaring  audacity;  whereupon  they  both  laugh. 

"  May  the  goda  grant  you  sense!"  f?ays  Mrs.  Wemyss, 
with  a  little  scornful  tilting  of  her  chin. 

"  And  you  a  kinder  mind.     Amen!"  returns  Bruno. 

"  Already  it  is  too  kind.  It  is  well  I  am  not  of  a 
jealous  disposition." 

"  I  would  you  were  a  trifle  more  so;  it  would  betoken 
deeper  feeling." 

"'  Out  and  out  the  prettiest  thing  you  knewl'  " — re- 
proachfully. 

"If  you  believed  that  nonsensical  speech,  it  didn't 
seem  to  affect  you  much."  Still  more  reproachfully — 
"  You  would  have  made  me  over  to  her  with  a  light  heart. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  an  easy  way  of  getting  rid 
of  me." 

"  Whose  kingdom  is  so  large  that  she  would  seek  to 
rid  herself  of  her  best  possession?"  asks  she,  in  a  low  tone 
and  with  an  adorable  glance. 

A  little  shout  Irom  the  triumphant  side  of  the  tennis- 
court  breaks  upon  their  left.  Then  sides  are  changed, 
and  the  game  begins  again,  the  abrupt  and  uncertain 
noise  of  the  balls  falling  pleasantly  upon  the  monotonous 
Bound  of  nature. 

"You  two  always  seem  to  be  the  happiest  people  in  the 
world,"  says  Dolores,  coming  up  to  them  presently  and 
sinking  into  a  seat  near  Mrs.  Wemyss. 

"I  say,  Bruno,  where  is  Dick?"  asks  Vyner,  who  has 
also  strolled  up  to  them,  more  in  the  wake  of  Audrey 
Ponsonby  than  actually  with  her. 

"  I  can't  think,"  answers  Bruno.  "  Perhaps  he  didn't 
mean  coming." 

"He  did!"  says  Audrey,  who  is  looking  really  beauti- 
ful, but  listless  and  cold  as  usual. 

"He  told  you  so  perhaps?"  asks  Vyner,  who  seems  anx- 
ious in  a  lazy  sort  of  way  to  bridge  over  the  unpleasant- 
ness of  last  night. 

"No,"  returns  Miss  Ponsonby  uncompromisingly,  gas- 
ing  not  at  him,  but  at  something  that  is  not  in  the  "far, 
far  distance." 

"  The  information  \»  vaeue.  but  full  of  interest,"  re« 


64  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

marks  Mr.  Vyner,  unabashed.  "  It  gires  us  every  hope 
that  he  has  been  foully  murdered.  Miss  Ponsonby,  the 
last  person  who  saw  him  alive,  at  precisely  thirty-five 
minutes  and  twenty-one  seconds  after  three  A.M.,  declares 
on  oath  that  he  was  then  bent  on  being  here  early  to-day. 
Has  any  one  telegraphed  to  Scotland  Yard?" 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  our  beloved  mother  had  sent 
him  all  the  way  to  Horton  to  make  some  modest  pur- 
chase," says  Bruno.  "  It  would  be  just  like  her,  consid- 
ering the  day  is  eighty  in  the  shade." 

"A  warm  day,  indeed,  to  go  so  far  as  Horton!"  gays 
Dolores,  lightly. 

Yet  her  face  had  changed  at  the  mention  of  Dick.  Had 
he  kept  away  purposely?  Had  he  repented  him  of  those 
few  hurried,  honeyed  words  last  night? 

"  Here  comes  Mrs.  Dovedale,"  says  Cecily  Wemyss, 
suddenly,  "and  with  herjidus  Achates,  of  course,  in  all 
her  war-paint.  How  I  detest  that  Mrs.  Drummond  and 
her  Georgie!  I  never  know  which  is  the  more  objection- 
able of  the  two." 

"  Or  the  three,"  puts  in  Bruno.  "  Mrs.  Dovedale  is 
to  me  as  objectionable  as  the  others.  Her  tongue  is 
sharper  than  the  serpent's  tooth.  See  now  how  tenderly 
she  smiles  upon  Miss  Maturin.  I  dare  say  she  has  taken 
her  in  completely,  and  made  her  believe  her  '  altogether 
such  an  one  as  herself.' ' 

"  That  would  be  a  simple  task,"  says  Dolores,  with  a 
fond  glance  at  Miss  Maturin,  who  is  smiling  her  kindest 
at  the  vicar's  wife.  "  Auntie  is  always  sure  that  every 
one  she  meets  thinks  just  as  she  does." 

Here  the  vicar's  wife  leaves  Miss  Maturin  and  goes  trip- 
pingly across  the  lawn  to  some  one  for  whom  she  has  a 
barbed  arrow  in  quiver.  She  is  therefore  looking  her 
sweetest;  and  she  has  a  simple  little  Pompadour  gown  on 
her,  and  a  baby  hat  that  suits  her  "  down  to  the  ground." 

"  How  very  picturesque  and  idyllic!"  says  Vyner,  softly. 

"  Dear  little  saint!  I  wonder  what  venom  lies  beneath 
that  simper?"  suggests  Mrs.  Wemyss. 

"I  would  not  be  Mrs.  Harconrt  at  this  moment  for  a 
good  round  crown,"  declares  Bruno — which  certainly  is 
not  much  of  a  sum,  but  is  evidently  meant  to  represent  a 
fabulous  amount,  the  verj  roundness  of  it  being  a  guaran* 
tee  of  its  imwensitj. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  66 

•'  She's  a  nightmare,"  says  Vyner;  "  but  still,  I  think, 
can  hardly  hold  comparison  with  her  patron  in  that  re- 
ipect.  Oh  for  that  Mrs.  Drummond,  and  oh  for  her 
Georgie!  Eh — ah!  How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Drnmmond?  So 
glad  to  see  you!  Your  daughter  here  to-day?" 

"  Yes,  over  there,"  answers  the  matron,  blandly.  "I'm 
sure  she  would  be  glad  if  you  would  see  her  through  a 
game  of  tennis.  She  plays  well — excellently  well,  I  may 
say — but  she  i&  so  nervous!  Quite  a  child  in  many  ways^ 
I  assure  you!" 

"  She  looks  it,"  murmurs  Vyner,  tenderly. 

"  By  Jove,  here's  Chicksy!"  exclaims  Bruno,  when  Mrs. 
Drummond  has  carried  herself  off.  "'Better  late  than 
never!'  I  wonder  who  makes  his  clothes?  They  are  the 
tightest  fit  I  ever  saw!" 

"  He  dresses  himself  very  well,  I  think,"  says  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  who  is  good-natured. 

"  On  the  principle  that  'fine  feathers  make  fine  birds,' 
Well,  he  is  wise!"  says  Bruno. 

"Now,  I  wonder  why  on  earth  he  wears  that  eye- 
glass?" remarks  Mr.  Vyner,  plaintively.  "  The  very 
mental  anxiety  connected  with  the  fixing  of  it,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  injury  to  his  sight,  must  be  terribly  wear- 
ing to  his  constitution!" 

"  Oh,  don't  fret  about  him!"  says  Bruno  with  tender 
anxiety.  "I  assure  you  it  does  him  no  harm;  he  always 
takes  it  out  when  he  wants  to  see." 

"  He  is  very  clever,  is  he  not?"  asks  Dolores,  in  perfect 
good  faith.  "  He  is  very  well  read,  I  mean,  and  likely  to 
take  honors  and  that?" 

At  first  there  is  an  astonished  silence,  and  then  every 
one  laughs  involuntarily,  forgetful  of  manners  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  Even  Audrey,  after  a  swift,  curious  glance  at 
Dolores,  gives  way  to  low  but  unrestrained  mirth. 

"  There  is  no  knowing  what  he  isn't  going  to  take," 
says  Mr.  Vyner,  with  a  swift  glance  at  Audrey:  "  but,  in 
accordance  with  his  appearance,  which  is  charmingly 
youthful,  I  should  say  measles  first,  after  that  mumps, 
and  so  on.  We  should  be  proud  to  have  such  an  erudite 
youth  in  our  midst.  Do  you  feel  proud,  Mrs.  Wemyss?" 

"  I'm  too  meek  a  woman  for  that,"  laughs  Mrs.  Wemygg. 
"  Pride  and  I  parted  company  many  a  day  ago,  and  I 
U»ve  felt  much  more  comfortable  ever  since."  As  she 


86  DICK'S    SWEETHEABT. 

gays  thfe  she  smiles  kindly  at  Audrey,  who  is  moodily 
trifling  with  a  large  moss-rose.  "  And,  after  all,  it  is 
quite  a  shame  to  laugh  at  Sir  Chicksy,  because  he  has 
more  good  points  than  most  of  us." 

"He  has  indeed,"  says  Bruno.  "If  you  mean  his 
elbows  and  knees;  I  never  saw  a  man  in  all  my  life  so 
oppressed  with  them.  Why,  they  are  all  over  him!" 

"  Mrs.  Wemyss  is  right,"  remarks  Vyner,  with  sus- 
picious gravity.  "Let  us  cease  from  evil-speaking.  Sir 
Chicksy  is  not  to  be  despised.  He  wears  good  clothes, 
has  money,  a  title,  and  no  relations;  he  is  considered 
clever  by  one  very  charming  young  lady,  and  is  the  sworn 
admirer  of  another — I  mention  no  names,  so  no  actions 
can  be  taken — and  is  on  the  whole  a  very  nice  girlish  boy. 
I  myself  regard  him  with  the  very  keenest  veneratioul 
Have  I  summed  up  all  those  good  points  you  mentioned, 
Mrs.  Wemyss?" 

"You  laugh!  But  do  you  know  he  reads  poetry  very 
well  indeed?"  says  Dolores,  who  is  a  tender  little  soul, 
with  whom  the  absent  are  always  right.  "  He  came  up 
here  the  other  day  and  read  *  Locksley  Hall '  for  auntie 
And  me,  and  we  were  quite  pleased." 

The  two  men  look  at  her,  and  perhaps  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  same  thought  runs  through  both  their  minds. 
At  all  events  it  is  a  very  kindly  glance  she  gets  from  each. 

"  He  is  fortunate  at  least  in  having  so  sweet  a  cham- 
pion," says  Vyner  gently,  with  a  little  graceful  bend  of 
the  head. 

"  He  isn't  a  bad  old  chap  when  all  is  told,"  acknowl- 
edges Bruno,  with  sudden  and  most  unexpected  clemency. 

"  Here  come  the  Montgomerys!"  cries  Mrs.  Wemyss 
suddenly.  "I  wonder  if  there  is  any  one  in  the  county 
that  isn't  here?  I  expect,"  turning  with  a  genial  smile 
to  Dolores,  "that  this  is  going  to  be  the  one  popular 
house  in  the  neighborhood.  Mine  used  to  be  the  general 
rendezvous;  at  least,"  with  a  glance  at  Bruno,  "boys 
found  it  a  useful  place  in  which  to  air  their  griefs  and 
joys.  But  now  I  give  in  to  your  aunt,  I  cede  popularity, 
all  to  her.  I  may  as  well  before  I  must.  You  see,  sub- 
mission is  more  honorable  than  defeat." 

"  What  a  cowardly  sentiment!"  laughs  Miss  Maturin, 
who  has  strolled  up  to  them,  her  heavier  duties  being  at 
PA  end.  She  ha?  indeed  longed  secretly  at  heart  to  bt 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  67 

with  them  for  an  hour  or  more,  silly  youth  being  alwayg 
dearer  to  her  than  sober  age.  She  lays  her  hand  now  on 
Audrey's  shoulder,  who  is  nearest  to  her.  "  I  hope  you 
will  all  come  here  just  as  often  as  ever  you  like,"  she  says 
kindly,  with  a  comprehensive  glance.  "  Not,"  laughing, 
4<  that  I  have  any  right  to  invite  you.  There,"  indicating 
Dolores  with  a  slight  wave  of  the  hand,  "  stands  the  little 
mistress  of  Greylands." 

"  Yes,  I  am  the  renl  chdtelaine.  This  is  but  my  slave 
and  vassal,"  retorts  Dolores,  saucily,  but  with  the  proud- 
est, fondest  smile  at  Miss  Maturin.  Slipping  her  hand 
within  her  arm,  she  presses  close  to  her  in  a  little  confid- 
ing, tender  fashion. 

Here  the  conversation  is  interrupted  by  the  approach 
of  servants  armed  with  trays  and  small  round  tables,  and 
a  happy  confusion  of  tea,  curagoa,  strawberries  and  cream, 
cakes,  and  brandy  and  soda. 

"  Nothing  like  soda  after  being  up  all  night,"  says 
Bruno,  cheerfully. 

"  Plain,"  supplements  Mr.  Vyner,  severely. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  so  many  ugly  women  together 
as  I  saw  last  night,"  says  Audrey,  suddenly,  without  any 
preface.  "  I  hate  unpresentable  people!" 

"  I  thought  all  the  women  shockingly  fagoUes.  certain- 
ly," acquiesces  Mrs.  Wemyss,  with  a  shrug.  "  But  what 
will  you?  Beauty  is  a  rare  weed,  and  the  art  of  dressing 
up  to  one's  style  almost  unknown." 

"  I  liked  that  queer-colored  gown  on  the  Duchess," 
eays  Dolores.  "It  was  old-fashioned,  but  somehow  it 
guited  her.  It  was  a  sort  of  kindness  to  her  complexion, 
her  choosing  that  color." 

"  What  a  speech  from  you!"  exclaims  Vyner,  opening 
his  eyes.  "  It  only  shows  that  the  very  sweetest  of  us  can 
sometimes  be  severe." 

"  Was  that  severe?"  asks  Dolores,  coloring.  "  I  didn't 
mean  it.  But  indeed  it  occurred  to  me  that — that  in  any- 
thing but  that  shade  she  might  not  look  her  best!"  At 
this  everybody  laughs  a  little. 

"A  bas  Us  Jesuitesf"  says  Bruno,  with  a  downward 
motion  of  his  hands. 

"  What  strikes  me  about  the  Duchess  is  this,"  sayi 
Mrs.  Wemyss — "  that  she  makes  me  feel  myself  unreal.  I 
am  not  Cecily  Wemyss  to  her,  but  only  a  '  Violet  Melrose ' 


18  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

or  a  '  Betsy/  as  the  case  may  be.  It  is  fatiguing,  and 
productive  of  a  sort  of  waking  nightmare;  to  go  through 
fife  as  a  perpetual  and  actual  *  Betsy  '  would  be  more  than 
weak  woman  could  endure.  I  wonder  what  she  is  going 
to  do  with  us  when  she  gets  us  to  the  Castle?" 

"  I  anticipate  the  worst,"  says  Bruno,  gloomily.  "  Dick 
treats  the  whole  thing  as  an  immense  joke;  but  I  fear  he 
Will  find  himself  in  the  wrong  box." 

"  Oh,  there  won't  be  any  boxes!"  exclaims  Sir  Chicksy, 
kindly,  who  has  just  joined  them.  "  Jnst  a  sort  of  small 
theater,  you  know,  and  quite  a  plain  stage." 

"<A  clear  stage  and  no  favor,'"  quotes  Mr.  Vyner, 
sadly.  "What  an  awful  thought!  I  was  thinking  of 
having  a  few  humble  friends  to  applaud  me  and  throw  me 
one  or  two  hundred  bouquets  at  a  guinea  apiece;  but  I 
suppose,  from  what  Chaucer  has  just  said,  it  would  not 
be  allowed.  Bless  me,  in  what  a  tyrannical  age  we  live!" 

"  '  Compelled  to  act  against  our  will,'"  begins  Bruno. 

"Not  against  mine,"  interrupts  Dolores  quickly. 
"  Do  you  know  I  am  quite  delighted  with  the  prospect  of 
these  private  theatricals  at  the  Castle;  though  I'm  sure  I 
can't  act  a  bit,  never  having  even  tried.  You  all  seem 
sorry;  but,  as  for  me,  I  think  it  will  be  the  greatest 
fun." 

For  a  moment  it  occurs  to  Mrs.  Wemyss  that  the  little 
dove-eyed  girl  before  her  may  be  wickedly  satirical;  then 
she  repents  her  of  the  notion. 

Vyner  laughs  aloud. 

"I  believe  we  all  think  just  as  you  do,"  he  says,  "and 
should  be  miserably  disappointed  if  anything  were  to 
arise  to  scatter  our  hopes  of  making  ourselves  '  fair  names 
and  famous'  out  of  these  coming  plays.  But  confession 
is  better  to  us,  and  we  love  to  play  at  indifference." 

"  As  good  practice  for  the  coming  mummeries,"  says 
Audrey  contemptuously. 

"Dolores!  Come  here,  and  give  us  some  tea,"  calls 
Miss  Maturin,  her  voice  coming  to  them  from  over  the 
soft  turf;  Dolores,  rising,  goes  to  her. 

With  little  deft  slender  fingers  she  pours  out  the  tea, 
and  smiles  upon  the  many  naen  who  throng  around  her, 
only  too  anxious  to  be  her  Mercurys.  And  yet,  through 
all  her  smiles  and  kindliest  glances,  the  pathetic  strain  IB 
shown,  the  faint  sadness  of  .a  hidden  regret,  the  shadow 


DICK'8    SWEETHEAET.  C9 

of  a  ragne  disappointment.  He  had  said  he  would  come; 
she  had  not  so  much  depended  on  the  delicate  tendernest 
of  his  look  or  tone  as  on  his  spoken  promise;  she  had 
been  quite  sure  of  his  coming,  she  had  dwelt  upon  his 
eyident  passionate  desire  to  be  with  her,  when,  in  the 
mystic  calmness  of  her  own  pretty  room,  she  lay  awake 
watching  the  widening  of  the  morn.  She  had  risen  in 
glad  expectation  of  what  the  full  day  would  bring  to  her; 
and  now — now  it  is  eventide,  and  all  her  sweet  beliefs 
have  crumbled  into  unsightly  ashes,  and  the  light  of  her 
soft  hope  has  grown  so  dull  as  to  be  almost  unseen  by 
her — a  barren  hope  indeed,  productive  of  naught  but 
secret  and  painful  blushes,  born  of  a  hurt  self-love,  and 
(something  perhaps  deeper  still.  And  then,  all  at  once, 
as  it  seems  to  her,  he  is  here — is  coming  to  her  over  th« 
cool  sweet  grass.  With  glad  quick  eyes  and  eager  step  he 
comes  to  where  she  is  sitting  in  her  white  gown,  with  a 
gracious  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  "blown  soft  hair  and 
bright" — her  pretty  hair;  it  seems  to  him  like  the  aureole 
of  a  saint  surrounding  that  pure  and  lovely  face,  as  he 
draws  nearer,  nearer  still,  until  he  is  at  her  side. 

She,  seeing  him,  has  grown  a  little  pale,  and  has  turned 
a  disdainful  shoulder  somewhat  in  his  direction,  and  let 
her  mobile  lips  take  a  sweet,  haughty  curve  that  suits 
them  somehow,  but  should  not  be  there  for  him.  Lean- 
ing back  in  her  chair  she  turns  up  her  face  in  a  fashion  a 
degree  kinder  than  usual  to  the  young  man  bending  over 
her  with  lover-like  assiduity,  as  it  seems  to  the  approach- 
ing Bouverie. 

He  is  a  very  good,  harmless  young  man;  but  at  thia 
moment  he  awakens  in  Mr.  Bouverie's  breast  a  hatred  as 
wild  as  it  is  unreasoning.  He  is  hanging  over  Dolores, 
he  is  gazing  with  apparent  delight  into  her  eyes;  and  she 
— she,  whom  he,  Bouverie,  had  believed  above  the  trivial 
cruelties  of  her  sex — is  smiling  back  at  him  as  sweetly  us 
though  he  were  the  male  unit  in  the  universe! 

Paler  and  paler  grows  Dolores  as  she  hears  the  ap- 
proaching footstep;  and  yet  it  is  with  the  calmest  air  in 
the  world,  and  with  the  prettiest  indifference,  that  she 
acknowledges  his  greeting — which  now  has  grown  some- 
what constrained — and  puts  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Another  cup  of  tea?"  she  asks,  lazily,  as  though  not 
clear  as  to  whether  she  .herself  gave  him  one  a  moment 


70  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

since  or  not,  and  is  therefore  somewhat  gurprited  at  hii 
fresh  "  How  d'ye  do?" 

"  I  have  not  had  one  yet,"  says  he,  rather  taken  aback 
by  this  unexpected  question. 

"  No?  What  a  shame!  But  I  dare  say  you  don't  care 
about  it.  Men  only  pretend  to  like  tea,  it  seems  to  me. 
And  yet'' — drawing  up  her  brows  reflectively,  the  little 
hypocrite — "  I  did  think  I  gave  you  some  just  now." 

"You  gave  me  nothing,"  replies  he,  somewhat  coldly — 
"  not  even  a  welcome,"  he  could  have  added. 

"  It  must  have  been  to  your  brother,  then." 

"  Very  possibly,"  says  Bouverie,  white  with  indignant 
disappointment,  "  as  I  have  only  just  now  come." 

"  Ah,  so,"  she  says,  as  though  slowly  awaking  to  a  pos- 
sible fact,  "  now  you  have  come — now,  when  the  others 
are  all  leaving?  It  was  scarcely  worth  your  while,  was  it? 
Sugar?"  She  smiles  quite  kindly — abominably  kindly — 
at  him  as  she  says  all  this. 

"  No,  thank  you — nothing — not  even  the  tea.  But  you 
are  wrong;  it  was  worth  my  while  to  come.  I  have  learned 
within  the  last  few  minutes  the  meaning  of  that  strange 
word  *  mutability.'  The  others  are  going,  you  say?  Being 
only  one  among  the  many,  I  suppose  I  must  go  too?" 

"  Oh,  no!" — with  gracious  indifference.  "Not  until  it 
quite  suits  you." 

"  This  very  moment  will  suit  me  admirably." 

"  Now,  here,  now  gone,"  says  she,  with  a  little  pale 
smile.  "  Well,  don't  let  me  detain  you." 

"  I  never  dreamed  you  would  so  far  trouble  yourself—- 
that would  be  too  much  to  expect.  To  be  allowed  to  come 
was  the  greatest  grace  to  which  I  aspired." 

"  Humility  is  somebody's  darling  sin,"  murmers  she, 
with  a  fine  contempt  and  flash  from  her  large  eyes  "  That 
grace  you  coveted  and  gained  might  have  enabled  you  to 
come  here  sooner." 

"I  think  I  came  too  soon!"  retorts  he,  with  sudden 
vehemence,  the  color  springing  to  his  face.  "  I  wish  the 
road  to  Horton  had  been  twice  as  long." 

"To  Horton!"  It  is  her  turn  to  change  color  now;  the 
blood  recedes  a  little  from  her  lips  and  brow.  "  Have  you 
been  to  Horton  and  back  to-day?" 

"Yes,  "shortly,"  ••  — 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART,  71 

"It  is  thirty  miles;  but" — with  sudden  hope — "of 
3ourse  you  went  by  train." 

"Unfortunately,"  says  he,  smiling  politely,  but  coldly, 

'the  trains  didn't  suit.     It  was  important  I  should  see 

our  man  of  business  before  the  post  went  out  in  Horton, 

and  no  train  from  that  would  bring  me  home  before  eight 

o'clock." 

"And  wouldn't  that  have  done?"  asks  Dolores,  anx- 
iously. 

"  It  would,  I  suppose;  but  I  didn't  think  so  then — not 
when  I  was  riding  there  and  back,  I  mean.  The  only 
thought  that  possessed  me  during  those  thirty  miles  was 
tha  tl  could  not  well  present  myself  to — to  Miss  Maturin 
at  eight  o'clock."  He  pauses,  and  looks  at  the  sky  with 
a  rather  barren  admiration.  "  What  a  charming  day  you 
have  had  for  the  reception  of  your  friends!"  he  says,  "in - 
diffei-ently. 

She  gives  him  to  understand  she  agrees  with  him  by  a 
little  movement  of  the  head;  but  she  says  nothing,  and 
stands  before  him  trifling  nervously  with  a  spray  of  steph- 
anotis.  Her  lids  are  lowered;  how  can  he  tell  then  that 
her  eyes  are  full  of  tears? 

"  You  have  quite  got  over  last  night's  fatigue,  I  hope?  " 
he  goes  on,  cruelly  conventional  because  so  sad  at  heart. 
Is  it  possible  he  should  now  think  of  tender  things  to  say 
to  this  girl  to  whom  lust  night  lie  gave  his  heart  only  to 
have  it  trodden  on  to-day?  He  is  unconsciously  cruel! — 
needlessly  miserable. 

"Quite,  thank  you,"  she  says  slowly;  and  she  turns 
away  from  him,  and  walks,  with  a  sudden  vague  longing 
for  comfort,  to  where  Miss  Maturin  is  standing  at  a  little 
distance. 

Her  eyes  are  dry  again  now,  her  head  is  uplifted,  but 
her  face  is  still  pale;  and  her  sensitive  lips  are  toncheds 
irith  a  shadowy  pain.  She  had  wronged  him,  that  was 
only  too  true,  she  told  herself;  but  how  could  she  have 
known?  He  had  been  cold,  bitterly  so,  and  had  refused 
to  pee  how  grieved  she  was  when  her  mistake  had  become 
known  to  her.  He  had  talked  to  her  in  a  strange  un- 
friendly voice  of  the  beauties  of  the  day — how  could  he 
have  felt  the  beauty  of  it  just  then? — and  had  hoped  she 
had  forgotten  last  night's  fatigue,  as  might  the  commonest 
stranger!  Had  he  quite  forgotten  that  sweet  last  night, 


7*  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

that  now  seems  as  though  it  had  never  been,  and  must 
for  evermore  be  regarded  as  the  mere  gilded  dream -child 
of  an  idle  brain?  And  what  was  the  meaning  of  that 
strange  accusation  he  had  brought  against  her — that 
charge  of  fickleness?  Why  should  he  tell  her  that  she 
had  taught  him  the  signification  of  that  sad  word  '•'  mu- 
tability "?  Well,  it  is  all  over  now — all  is  at  an  end,  if 
indeed  one  can  speak  of  the  end  of  anything  that  has  had 
scarce  a  beginning.  Perhaps  he  had  not  meant  those  few 
words  last  night;  perhaps — and  yet —  Yes;  it  is  all  for 
the  best,  no  doubt;  but — why  had  he  said  those  words? 

With  a  secret  sense  of  bitterest  self-contempt,  she  casts 
a  hurried  glance  to  where  she  has  left  him  standing.  But 
he  is  not  there — he  is  not  indeed  anywhere.  And,  with  a 
little  catch  at  her  heart,  she  tells  herself  that  she  was 
right.  All — what  a  little  all,  and  how  sweet  it  now 
seems! — is  surely  at  an  end  between  them! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ANOTHER  day  is  added  to  the  mass  of  buried  ages. 
Already  it  is  high  moon.  The  world,  grown  weary  of 
June's  jollity,  is  lying  quiescent,  lost  in  a  languorous 
slumber. 

High  overhead  a  tiny  speck  of  quivering  brown,  grown 
mad  with  the  mere  ecstasy  of  living,  is  caroling  aloud  its 
fond  praise  of  earth  and  its  Creator.  Down  below  a  little 
dainty  figure,  clad  all  in  white,  and  somewhat  sad  and 
somewhat  dejected  in  its  going,  is  wading  its  way  through 
iwented  grasses  and  waving  meadow. 

"  Crowds  of  bees  are  giddy  with  clover 

Crowds  of  grasshoppers  skip  at  her  feet, 
Crowds  of  larks  at  their  matins  hang  over, 
Thanking  the  Lord  for  a  life  so  sweet." 

A  hot  and  radiant  sun  is  sitting  up  above,  holding  a 
stately  revel.  All  the  heavens  are  spotted  with  pale 
Clouds,  edged  with  faintest  amber,  whose  youthful  beauty 
is  made  even  more  conspicuous  because  of  the  presence  of 
one  sad  sister,  draped  all  in  mournful  gray  and  tipped 
with  gold,  that  bangs  right  over  the  clump  of  firs. 

Dolores,  glancing  upward  at  this  forlorn  little  cloud, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAET.  73 

sigha  resentfully,  and  tells  herself  that  she  resembles  it- 
sad,  despondent,  angry.  Alas  for  that  sorry  yesterday 
and  all  its  attendant  regrets!  She  clinches  one  small 
hand  hastily,  with  a  touch  of  sharpest  self-disdain,  and 
throws  up  her  head  impatiently. 

All  the  morning  depression  Imd  sat  so  persistently  upon 
her  that  at  last  it  had  seemed  to  her  a  good  thing  to  bestir 
herself  and  go  forth  into  the  calm,  soft  air,  to  see  if  that 
could  not  banish  it.  There  is  still  a  good  deal  of  ange& 
in  her  heart  as  she  thinks  of  Mr.  Bouverie.  He  had  been 
"Dick"  for  one  sweet  night  and  half  a  day,  but  now  is 
"  Dick  "  no  more.  How  eager  he  had  been  to  accept  her 
small  mistake  as  a  willful  incivility — how  determinedly 
blind  to  her  regret!  Perhaps  he  had  not  noticed  it — had 
thought  her  cold  as  himself?  Well,  a  good  thing,  too! 
But  there  is  a  pang  at  her  heart  as  she  tries  to  convince 
herself  of  this. 

Behind  the  giant  firs  there  is  a  little  river — a  brawling 
noisy  river  that  rushes  headlong  to  the  sea.  It  is  a  favor* 
ite  of  Dolores',  and  to  it  she  turns  her  slow  feet.  The 
beauty  of  the  day  is  loat  upon  hei1,  the  fair  sweetness  of 
the  growing  noontide  and  all  its  fuller  lights  and  rich 
charms  perfected,  the  faint  sea-line  upon  the  west,  the 
delicate  clearness  of  the  hills,  the  misty  light  that  floats 
tremulously  low  down  between  earth  and  sky,  and  the 
tender  salt  breath  from  the  ocean  that  comes  upward  from 
the  beach,  where  the 

"  Dark  green  waves  are  lying 
Foam-clad  on  the  distant  shore." 

She  has  gathered  a  few  dog-roses  from  the  hedges,  and 
put  to  them,  in  an  idle  inconsequent  fashion,  some  large 
marguerites  that  stare  at  her  unblinkingly.  With  her 
white  gown  clinging  to  her  and  her  great  eyes  fixed  mourn- 
fully upon  a  future  dark  as  midnight,  she  reaches  her 
destination,  and  throws  herself  upon  the  bank  of  her  be- 
loved river,  at  the  root  of  a  gnarled  old  oak.  Lifting  her 
hat  from  her  pretty  roughened  hair,  she  lays  it  on  tho 
sward  beside  her,  and,  taking  her  knees  into  her  embrace, 
prepares  to  give  herself  up  to  saddest  thought. 

But  she  is  too  young,  too  innocent  for  this  sort  of  thing. 
Close  to  her  is  the  happy  turbulent  stream,  so  full  of  con- 
yersation  that  perforce  it  carries  her  .attention  away  with 


74  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

it;  and  above  her  head  the  birds — fond  little  denizens  of 
the  branches  round  her — are  calling  to  one  another,  and 
to  her,  in  wild  glad  song  that  wakes  the  silence  into  life. 
Her  thoughts  wander;  the  fears  within  her  eyes,  finding 
themselves  forgotten,  die  an  early  death. 

All  the  sounds  of  nature  combine  together  to  rouse  thi« 
fair  thing  from  her  sad  musings.  She  can  not  resist  their 
influence.  The  vague  perfumes,  the  mellow  music,  all 
sink  into  her  soul.  She  is  at  unison  with  them;  her  heart 
g«es  out  to  meet  them.  Truly  this  world  is  still  full  of 
great  and  generous  promises,  although — 

But  what  is  this  other  sound  that  comes  to  her  through 
the  silken  leaves?  It  rises  above  all  the  rest,  and  comeg 
ever  nearer,  nearer.  It  moves  her  as  all  the  others  have 
failed  to  do;  it  fills  her  with  a  sharp  pain  and  a  quick  un- 
rest. It  is  a  voice. 

Her  color  deepens  and  then  recedes  as  she  recognizes  it 
and  knows  it  to  belong  to  her  enemy.  To  such  an  awful 
depth  in  her  esteem  has  she  consigned  Bouverie  since  that 
last  fatal  interview  not  twenty-four  hours  old. 

Evidently  he  is  not  in  grief!  Yesterday's  direful  con* 
sequences  have  not  afflicted  him  with  that  terrible  mal- 
ady called  "low  spirits.''*  He  is  quite  happy!  He  is 
singing!  Dolores  is  consumed  with  indignation  when  the 
certainty  is  borne  in  upon  her  that  he  is  actually  trolling 
"  Nancy  Lee  "  in  a  clear  joyous  barytone.  If  it  had  been 
"  Love  Not,"  or  some  such  melancholy  ditty,  she  might 
have  forgiven  it;  but  "  Nancy  Lee!" 

She  rises  to  her  feet,  and,  as  he  turns  the  corner  all  un- 
consciously to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  her,  she  ad- 
vances toward  him  a  step  or  two. 

"You!"  says  he,  startled  out  of  all  more  conventional 
addresses,  and  letting  the  obnoxious  "  Nancy ''  go  to  the 
winds. 

"  Yes — mel"  returns  she,  icily,  and  not  at  all  gramma- 
tically. 

Her  very  acidity  revives  Bouverie  and  restores  him  to 
his  usual  calm. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  says,  politely,  pitching  his 
cigar  into  the  river.  "I  fear  I  addressed  you  rather  un- 
ceremoniously; but  the  fact  i«,  I  was  so  surprised  to  meet 
»ny  one  here  that  I  forgot  myself — not  that  any  amount 
of  surprise  could  be  aa^ excuse  for  ill- manner*." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  78 

*"No,"  says  Dolores,  indifferently.  She  is  looking  away 
from  him — far  down  the  little  river  to  where  the  great 
sea  lies  basking  in  the  sunshine — and  has  evidently  devel- 
oped an  overpowering  interest  in  a  sea-gull  that  is  flitting 
to  and  fro  upon  the  tiny  wavelets  like  a  fleck  of  burnished 
silver.  It  is  as  though  she  has  altogether  forgotten  Bou- 
verie's  presence. 

He  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  leave  her,  and  half  lifts 
his  hat;  then,  as  though  against  his  will,  pauses. 

"  Did  you  walk  here?"  he  asks,  in  a  tone  he  fondly  but 
erroneously  believes  to  be  as  indifferent  as  her  own. 

"  Yes,"  says  Miss  Lome,  in  just  the  same  uninterested 
fashion  as  before.  Her  shoulder  is  now  turned  a  little  in 
his  direction. 

"Through  the  meadows?"  persists  he,  some  acerbity  in 
his  manner. 

"Yes,"  replies  she  again.     This  is  too  much! 

"Do  you  always  speak  in  monosyllables?  "  demands  he, 
wrath  f  ully. 

"  You  have  known  me  long  enough  to  be  able  to  answer 
that  question  for  yourself,"  returns  she  calmly. 

"I  see.  Of  course  I  must  understand  that — you  wish 
me  to  leave  you.  But  what  have  I  done,"  asks  the  young 
man  indignantly,  "  that  you  won't  even  speak  to  me?" 

"I  have  spoken  to  you,"  says  Dolores  coldly;  but  now 
there  is  a  little  something  in  her  voice  which  does  not 
exactly  encourage  or  hold  out  hope  to  him,  but  yet  gives 
him  an  incitement  to  pour  out  before  her  his  pent-up 
grievance. 

"  Yes — but  in  what  a  way!  How  have  I  offended  you? 
Was  it  such  a  crime,  my  being  late  yesterday?  Or  was 
it — "  He  stops  abruptly  and  looks  at  her  with  miserable 
uncertainty  in  his  eyes. 

"  Why  should  you  believe  I  was  offended  yesterday?" 
asks  she  suddenly.  His  question  had  touched  her  un- 
pleasantly. A  little  anger  flames  into  her  eyes  and  deadens 
the  sweetness  of  her  lips.  Was  her  disappointment  then 
so  palpable  to  everybody?  She  shrinks,  as  if  hurt.  "You 
are  wrong,"  she  says,  with  a  little  catch  in  her  breath. 

"I  suppose  so.  I  hardly  dared  hope  I  was  right.  I 
should  have  known  that  your  displeasure  did  not  arise  out 
of  yesterday,  but  out  of  the  night  before.  Those  last  words 
I  said  to  you — I  should  Bet  have  said  them;  you  had  given 


76  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

me  no  right.  If  you  mean  me  to  understand  that  I  must 
not  repeat  them — "  His  voice  has  grown  somewhat 
husky.  Closing  his  fingers  more  tightly  upon  the  slight 
gtick  he  is  holding  in  both  hands,  it  snaps  in  two;  he 
flings  the  pieces  far  from  him  with  an  impatient  jerk.  "  I 
shall  never  trouble  you  in  that  way  again,"  he  says,  and 
turns,  as  if  to  continue  his  way  through  the  wood. 

"Do  not  go  because  of  me,"  says  Dolores,  in  a  low 
voice.  "I—  Auntie  will  be  expecting  me.  I  must  go 
home  at  once." 

She  is  standing  upon  a  little  green  mound,  and,  as  she 
speaks,  she  steps  down  from  it;  in  so  doing,  her  foot 
comes  upon  a  sharp  piece  of  broken  stone,  which  causes 
her  such  pain  that  involuntarily  her  foot  turns  under  her. 
It  is  all  the  work  of  an  instant.  She  lays  her  hand  upon 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  to  keep  herself  from  falling,  and  the 
very  lowest,  faintest  cry  of  agony  escapes  her.  It  is  so 
faint  as  to  be  almost  imperceptible;  but 

"  Lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 
And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing." 

and  Bouverie  feels  she  has  come  to  grief. 

"  Yon  are  hurt?"  he  says,  going  anxiously  up  to  her. 

"It  is  nothing,"  returns  she,  still  coldly,  and  with  de- 
termined self-possession,  though  her  lips  have  grown 
rather  white.  "  I  assure  you  it  is  nothing." 

"It  is  certainly  something,"  says  Bonverie,  quietly, 
feeling  sick  at  heart  as  he  notices  the  pained  lines  round 
her  sensitive  mouth.  "  You  have  hurt  your  foot.  Yon 
must  allow  me  to  see  you  home." 

"  There  is  really  no  reason  why  you  should,"  says 
Dolores;  "  I  beg  you  will  give  yourself  no  trouble  on  my 
account.  See — I  can  walk  very  well." 

And  indeed  for  one  or  two  yards  she  manages  to  move 
along;  but  then  she  falters,  and  a  quick  breath  tells  of 
increasing  agony. 

"  You  had  better  take  my  arm,"  says  Dick,  coldly, 
but  with  passionately  suppressed  anxiety. 

"No,  thank  you.  I  am  sure  I  can  get  on  by  myself," 
returns  she;  but  though  she  says  it,  she  seems  afraid  to 
take  the  next  step. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  your  persisting  in  this  folly?" 
exclaims  Bouyerie,  an<«'il»-  "  JJo  you  want  to  be  laid  up 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  7t 

tor  a  month?  Take  my  arm  directly;  or  " — ungracious- 
ly— "shall  I  carry  you?  Perhaps  it  will  be  better — " 

"  No,  no  " — indignantly — "  certainly  not!  I  do  not 
want  your — any  help  at  all!" 

There  are  tears  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  not  only  her 
lips,  but  all  her  face  is  now  quite  colorless. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  says  Dick,  obstinately;  and,  coming 
close  to  her,  he  passes  his  arm  round  her. 

She  makes  no  protest,  but  it  is  evident  to  him  that  she 
dislikes  his  support,  Together,  and  in  silence,  they  go 
on  again  for  a  little  while;  and  then,  seeing  that  she  is 
still  enduring  great  pain,  he  ventures  on  another  protest. 

"  You  know  you  are  suffering  horribly,"  he  says,  with 
«ome  vehemance.  "  Why  don't  you  let  me  carry  you?  It 
isn't  such  a  very  long  way,  and  it  will  be  so  much  better 
for  you.  Do  try  to  understand  " — savagely — "  that  I 
have  no  desire  whatever  to  carry  you  for  my  own  part — 
that  I  think  you  would  be  rather  heavy  than  otherwise — • 
but  that  I  can't  bear  to  see  any  creature  in  pain." 

To  this  extremely  rude  exhortation  she  makes  no  reply 
beyond  a  faint  effort  to  withdraw  herself  from  his  sup- 
porting arm,  which  he  silently  refuses  to  let  her  do. 

Yet  a  few  steps  further  they  go,  and  then  all  at  once 
Dolores  stands  quite  still  upon  the  woodland  path,  and 
gazes  at  him  with  wide,  agonized,  almost  imploring  eyes. 

"  Oh,  this  is  madness!"  cried  Bouverie;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment, without  further  leave  from  her,  he  has  her  in  his 
arms  and  is  carrying  her  with  slow  care  in  the  direction 
of  her  home. 

How  light  she  is!  What  a  frail  burden!  His  heart 
smites  him  as  he  remembers  how  a  moment  since  he  al- 
luded to  her  as  being  probably  heavy.  Would  that  she 
were  indeed  a  little  heavier  than  she  is!  Why,  there  is 
sca'-ce  an  air  of  heaven  but  would  blow  away  this  fragile 
creature!  What  a  poor  hold  upon  its  life  must  this  slender 
frame  possess! 

His  heart  is  beating  madly  as  he  holds  her  to  it,  yet 
there  is  a  set,  angry  expression  upon  his  brow,  and  a  dis- 

E leased  curve  about  his  lips.     Only  yesterday  he  would 
ave  deemed  it  bliss  to  be  allowed  to  keep  her  hand  nn- 
forbidden  within  his,  yet  now  he  had   all  her  sweet  body 
in  his  arms,  no  joy  is  his!     Her  pretty  head,  crowned  with 
its  soft,  short,  sunny  rings  of  hair,  is  lying  upon  his 


78  DICK'S    SWEETHEART 

shoulder;  her  face  is  very  near  to  his.     Oil,  uow  hard    ; 
thing  it  seems  that  love  alone  should  be  far  from  him! 

Once  he  ventures  to  look  down  upon  her,  to  lift  her 
head  to  a  position  a  degree  more  comfortable;  but,  as  he 
does  it,  he  feels  that  she  stirs  uneasily  in  his  arms,  and 
shrinks  from  him.  This  last  mark  of  her  aversion  cuts 
him  to  the  soul. 

"  Is  my  very  touch  so  hateful  to  you?"  he  asks,  the  more 
roughly  because  of  his  love  and  the  misery  he  is  enduring; 
but  she  makes  him  no  reply,  and  only  turns  her  face 
against  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  so  that  it  is  hidden  from 
him. 

What  a  cold,  cruel  child  she  is!  Can  she  not  fathom  his 
love?  Can  not  the  very  greatness  of  it  move  her  even  to 
pity,  that  poorest  of  all  consolations  to  a  lover's  heart. 
"  So  young  and  so  untender!"  Great  heavens,  why  was  a 
heart  given  him  only  to  waste  it  on  a  girl  who  cares  as 
much  for  him  as —  Well,  well,  many  men  have  known 
disappointments  of  this  kind,  and  have  lived  through  them 
— but  surely  none  so  keen  as  his,  for  they  have  not  known 
Dolores!  To  endure  is  the  lot  of  all;  but  to  be  so  deliberately 
spurned  by  a  mere  child! 

Just  at  this  moment  a  stifled  sound  breaks  upon  his 
ear,  and  he  feels  the  little  form  in  his  arms  quiver;  again 
that  sorrowful  sound,  and  then  all  at  once  he  knows  that 
she  is  crying. 

Despair  seizes  upon  him.  Is  he  born  only  to  distress 
and  grieve  this  innocent  creature?  He  stands  quite  still, 
scarce  knowing  what  to  do,  and  feels  that  the  arms  that 
encircle  her  are  trembling.  Then  very  gently  he  places 
her  upon  the  ground,  still  supporting  her  strongly  so  that 
her  injured  foot  may  come  to  no  harm,  and  looks  at  her 
with  anguish  in  his  kindly  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Dolores,  what  is  this?"  he  says,  with  deep  agi- 
tation. "Am  I  indeed  so  distasteful  to  you?  There — 
gee — I  have  placed  you  on  the  ground  again,  and  will  help 
you  as  unobtrusively  as  I  can  until  I  get  you  home.  Think 
of  me  as  though  I  were  only  a  stick  or  a  stone — either  of 
which, "says  Mr.  Bouverie,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  misery, 
"  I  wish  wibh  all  my  soul  I  were,  as  then  feeling  would  ba 
dead  within  me!  Why  must  my  love  bring  me  only  un- 
happiness?  Oh,  dear,  dear  heart,  take  pity  on  me  and 
try  at  least  not  to  hate  me!" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEABT.  ft 

His  voice  dies  away  from  him,  and  he  waits  in  a  sort  of 
nervous  dread  for  the  answer  that  may  come.  It  is  long 
in  coming,  and  the  silence  that  follows  upon  his  words 
grows  more  oppressive  every  moment.  The  birds  are 
hushed  as  if  of  one  accord,  their  songs  no  longer  sanctify 
the  air,  the  soft  gurgling  of  the  river  grows  every  moment 
fainter,  lower;  as  it  passes  mournfully  by  to  the  great 
ocean,  it  seems  to  him  to  murmur  hopelessly,  "  Dolores, 
Dolores!"  By  an  effort  he  rouses  himself  from  the  pain- 
ful apathy  into  which  he  is  falling. 

"It  is  cruel  to  torment  you  so,"  he  says  wearily.  "  If 
you  must  hate  me,  why,  you  must!" 

There  is  a  touch  of  oriental  resignation  about  this  iast 
remark;  and  indeed  he  has  resigned  himself  to  the  worst; 
but  Dolores  breaks  the  spell. 

"Ah,  it  is  just  that,"  she  says  suddenly,  with  a  quick 
sob — "I  can  not  bear  you  to  think  it!  It  isn't  true!  Hate 
you?  Oh,  no,  no!" 

"If  not  that,"  says  Bouverie,  in  a  strange  tone, 
"  what?" 

There  is  a  lengthy  pause,  then: 

"  Oh,  Dick,"  she  murmurs,  in  an  agonized  tone, 
" don't  you  think  you  could  guess  it?  I  couldn't  say  it; 
but— but— " 

"Is  it  that  you  love  me?"  says  Bouverie.  Even  to 
himself  his  voice  sounds  changed ;  he  tries  to  put  her  back 
from  him  that  he  may  see  her  face,  but  she  resists  him 
and  hides  it  away  from  him  upon  his  breast. 

"Darling,"  whispers  he,  in  a  low  impressive  tone,  "is 
it  my  wife  I  hold?" 

There  is  a  moment's  crudest  suspense,  and  then  two 
soft  arms  steal  around  his  neck,  and  a  little  velvet  cheek 
is  laid  against  his — a  delicate  flushed  cheek,  all  warm  and 
wet  with  tears. 

"Oh,  Dick!"  sighs  she.     "  Oh,  dear— dear  Dick!" 

It  is  enough!  Upon  the  spot  Bouverie's  doubts  desert 
him,  and  a  certainty  full  of  blessedness  takes  him  into 
its  keeping.  How  changed  is  all  the  world!  Overhead 
once  more  the  birds  have  burst  into  a  joyful  paean,  the 
river,  erstwhile  dumb,  is  now  loudly  chanting  a  psalm  full 
of  marvelous  delights.  Not  Heaven  itself  could  grant  him 
a  happiness  more  complete  than  she  has  conveyed  to  him 
in  her  fond  faltering  wordi. 


80  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  But  w«  mustn't  forget  your  foot,"  he  says  presently. 
"  Does  it  hurt  much  now?" 

"  It  is  better,  ever  so  much  better;  I  really  hardly  feel 
it  now.  Isn't  that  odd?"  says  Dolores,  opening  her 
eyes  in  a  bewitching  fashion.  "  There  isn't  half  the  pain 
in  it  that  there  was  before  " — with  a  sweet  little  blush — 
"  before  we  were — friends." 

"  Lovers,"  says  Dick. 

"  Yes,  lovers,"  admits  she,  with  unmistakable  delight. 
"Do  you  know,  I  think,  when  one  is  miserable  in  mind, 
(one  feels  one's  body  more!  I  fancy  I  am  almost  well  now; 
see!" 

She  places  her  foot  bravely  on  the  ground,  and  takes  a 
step  forward  with  quite  an  undaunted  front.  It  is  only 
one  step,  and  it  leaves  her  when  completed  somewhat 
flushed,  and  with  a  tiny  wrinkle  on  her  brow. 

"Ah,  it  does  ache  still!"  she  says,  with  deep  disap- 
pointment. "  You  are  not  so  good  a  doctor  after  all;  it 
burns  like  fire.  I  think  perhaps,  if  I  had  my  shoe  off — 
Eh?" 

"  Come  down  to  the  river,  and  let  me  bathe  it  for  you," 
proposes  Dick.  "  When  it  is  cooler,  it  will  feel  better; 
and  I  dare  say  the  shoe  is  pinching  it  now." 

"  It  must  be  then  because  the  foot  is  swelled,"  says 
Miss  Lome,  glancing  at  her  perfect  feet  and  her  Parisian 
shoes,  with  their  wonderful  heels,  with  a  very  pardonable 
pride,  "because  I  assure  you,"  with  extreme  earnestness, 
"  these  shoes  are  quite  too  large  for  me;  I  can  step  into 
them  without  a  shoe-horn  1" 

"Of  course  you  can;  they  are  disgracefully  loose,"  re- 
marks Dick,  who  is  fast  developing  into  an  unimpeach- 
able courtier.  "And  what  little  shoes  they  are!  Why, 
they  would  be  too  small  for  a  baby." 

"They  are  small,  aren't  they?"  she  says,  with  a  burst 
of  irrepressible  pleasure.  Then  she  looks  ashamed  of 
herself  and  lowers  her  head.  "Auntie  says  my  mother 
had  little  feet, "she murmurs  shyly,  almost  apologetically. 
There  is  something  wonderfully  lovable  about  the  faint 
touches  of  diffidence  that  betray  themselves  in  her  now 
and  then. 

"  Talking  of  Miss  Maturin,"  says  Dick,  "  what  will  she 
lay  to  me  as  a  nephew,  eh?" 
"  All  that  is  good,"  declares  Dolores,  with  settled  COB- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  81 

fiction.  "  She,"  naively,  "  she  will  be  delighted  with 
you.  It  was  only  last  evening  that  she  was  running  yos. 
up  to  the  very  skies,  and  calling  you  all  sorts  of  pretty 
names." 

"And  you,  how  did  you  answer  her?" 

"Ah!"  murmurs  she,  with  a  little  coquettish  grimace. 
"You  must  remember  that  last  night  I  hated  you.  No 
name  I  could  have  invented  would  have  been  bad  enough 
for  you.  But  help  me  down  to  the  river  now,  and  see 
what  can  be  done  for  me.  Let  us  try  the  cold-water  cure 
before  we  throw  ourselves  on  auntie's  mercies,  and  frighten 
her  to  death." 

The  river  is  but  six  or  seven  yards  away  from  them. 
Having  been  carefully  carried  to  it,  Miss  Lome  seats  her- 
self upon  the  bank,  and,  desiring  her  companion  to  turn 
away  his  head,  proceeds  to  divest  herself  of  shoe  and 
stocking.  It  hurts  her  more  than  she  imagines  it  would 
do,  and  at  the  close  of  the  operation  she  says,  "  Ach!" 
with  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

This  rague  remark  brings  him  to  her  side  again  in  no 
time.  Filling  his  hat  with  water,  he  proceeds  to  bathe 
the  pretty  naked  foot  with  all  the  gentleness  of  a  woman. 

"  Is  it  easier  now?"  he  asks  presently. 

"  The  fierce  heat  has  gone  out  of  it.  Yes,  it  is  a  great 
deal  easier.  Watch  my  shoe,  or  it  will  fall  into  the  river!" 

He  rescues  it  from  its  impending  grave,  and  then  turns 
it  over  and  over  in  his  hands  admiringly. 

"  What  high  heels!"  he  says,  laughingly.  "  They  must 
add  quite  two  cubits  to  your  stature.  Why  if  they  were 
taken  off,  you  would  be  nowhere!" 

He  says  all  this  most  lovingly;  but  at  his  words  her  face 
clouds.  She  sighs  faintly,  and  plays  with  the  ribbons  on 
her  gown. 

"Dick,"  she  says,  at  last,  nervously,  "  would  you  love 
me  better  if  I  were  taller?  It  isn't  a  good  thing  to  be  so 
Tery  small,  is  it?  Perhaps  you  like  great — that  is — what 
they  call  '  fine '  women — do  you  ?"  She  pauses  and  leans 
toward  him,  very  deep  anxiety  in  her  lustrous  eyes. 

"  May  Heaven  defend  me  from  all  such!"  says  Dick, 
piously.  "  If  there  is  one  thing  on  earth  I  loathe,  it  is  a 
fleshy  woman!" 

"Ah,  so  do  I!"  laughs  she,  delightedly,  slipping  her  arm 
once  more  round  his  B@<$*  "  You  can't  think  what  a  re- 


82  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

lief  it  is  to  me  to  know  that  you  agree  with  me  on  that 
point.  Poor  big  women  "—with  growing  pity—  "they 
are  always  in  the  way,  aren't  they?  And  muslins  and 
cambrics  are  so  impossible  to  them.  It  is  very  sad  for 
them,  I  think,  because,  after  all,  they  can't  help  growing, 
you  know,  can  they?" 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  helping  it,  at  all 
events,"  says  Bouverie,  "  though,  when  we  come  to  think 
of  it,  we  are  only  talking  the  most  excessive  nonsense. 
Were  you  taller  than  the  most  gigantic  Amazon  ever 
grown,  with  that  angel-face  of  yours,  I  should  still  adore 
you,  and  hold  you  in  my  heart  higher  than  all  the  world." 
There  is  a  passion  in  his  manner  that  subdues  her  and 
pales  her  pretty  cheeks.  "  Dolores,"  he  goes  on  quickly, 
some  of  the  old  fear  waking  in  him,  "  are  you  sure  you 
have  no  misgiving — none?  No  uncertainty  in  your  heart 
about  your  love  for  me?  Think — in  pity  to  us  both,  my 
beloved — think  of  this  now  whilst  yet  there  is  time. 
Time!"  He  rises  to  his  feet,  and  puts  her  back  from  him. 
"  Already  there  is  no  time,"  he  says.  "  My  very  soul  is 
yours  from  this  day  forth,  to  ruin  or  to  save!" 

"Ah!"  whispers  she  softly,  great  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes.  "  It  you  could  only  know  how  I  felt  yesterday, 
when  I  believed  you — you  did  not  care  for  me,  you  would 
let  no  such  cruel  doubts  rise  within  you!  Come  back  to 
me,  Dick!  Do  not  stand  over  there  as  if  you  hated  me. 
Come" — holding  out  her  arms — "come  at  once!  Yon 
know" — with  a  reproachful  glance  at  her  foot — "I  can 
not  go  to  you." 

"It  seems  all  too  good  to  believe,"  says  Dick,  lifting 
her  slender  hand  and  kissing  the  fingers  one  by  one. 
"Sweetheart,  whose  happiness  is  as  great  as  mine?" 

At  this  the  smile  returns  to  her  lips;  but  still  there  is 
a  faint  regret  within  her  eyes.  She  bends  toward  him. 

"  Was  I  very  bad  to  you  awhile  ago?"  she  whispers. 
"  Was  T  very  cross  to  you,  my  poor  boy?  What  did  I  say 
then?  What  cruel  words  did  I  use?  Scold  me  for  them. 
And  yet,  no — my  punishment  lay  in  the  uttering  of  them! 
They  vexed  me  even  more  than  they  vexed  you.  Dick, 
you  did  mean  it  then,  after  all." 

"  What,  darling?" 

"What  you  said  to  me  the  night  of  your  mother's  ball, 
(nit  as  I  was  leaving— about— "  She  pauses,  and  turns  a 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  83 

outton  of  his  ooat  round  and  round  between  tier  fingers, 
in  a  nervous  confused  fashion. 

"About  what,  then?"  He  remembers  perfectly,  but 
can  not  resist  the  longing  to  hear  what  she  will  say. 

"About  holding  me  in  your  heart,"  she  whispers,  so 
low  that  he  has  to  stoop  to  hear  her.  Yet  she  raises  her 
head  as  she  says  it,  and  smiles  tremulously,  though  he 
can  see  that  tears  stand  thick  within  her  eyes.  "  You 
did  mean  it?" 

"  Oh,  that  I  could  tell  you  all  I  mean!"  exclaims  he, 
with  passionate  fondness.  "Dolores,  why  are  there  tears 
in  your  eyes?" 

"  Because  of  my  joy,"  murmurs  she  sweetly.  Then 
she  puts  her  hand  upon  his  chest  and  looks  at  him  curi- 
ously. "Are  you  glad?"  she  asks. 

"Glad!"  says  Dick. 

"  Ah,  so  am  I!  Yesterday  I  was  so  afraid  I  had  lost 
you  forever,  and  now  to-day  you  are  mine;  an  hour  ago, 
and  all  things  looked  so  dull,  so  colorless,  that  it  seemed 
to  me" — dreamily — "  as  if  it  wasn't  much  use  to  be  alivol 
But  now  " — with  a  quick  change  of  color  and  a  radiart 
smile — "all  that  is  at  an  end,  Dick!  Shall  I  tell  auntie 
all  about— about  yon  and  me?" 

"  Of  course,"  says  Dick,  with  animation;  "the  sooner 
the  better.  All  the  world  should  be  told,  and  at  onco. 
The  moment  I  reach  home  I  shall  tell  my  mother." 

Dolores  shrinks  from  him. 

"Oh,  no — not  yet — not  quite  yet!"  she  says,  growing 
very  pale.  "  Do  not  tell  your  mother  yet!" 

"  But  why  not,  my  dearest?  How  you  change  color! 
Surely  you  are  not  afraid  of  my  mother?" 

"No.  no!" — hastily;  then,  with  a  sudden  shamefaced 
truthfulness  and  an  adorable  downward  motion  of  the 
head — "  It  is  true,  though;  I  am  afraid  of  her." 

"But,  darling,  how  absurd!  Why,  she  will  be  very 
proud  when  she  finds  what  a  sweet  daughter-in-law  I  am 
going  to  give  her!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that!"  says  Dolores,  with  a  sudden  faint 
flush  and  a  touch  of  dignity  that  sits  very  charmingly 
upon  her,  and  endears  her  to  him  the  more.  I  do  not 
dream  that  she  will  object  to  me;  but  there  is  something 
aboat  her — I  can  not  explain  it;  but " — she  pauses,  and  a 
little  curious  light  comMLUUo  her  eves — "  I  am  sure  the 


84  DICK'S    ov^EETHEART. 

will  do  m«  harm  yet!"  she  says,  slowly.  "  She  will  bt 
the  one  to  destroy  my  happiness — to — "  Again  she  pauses. 
She  has  grown  deadly  white,  and  now  she  raises  one  hand 
to  her  head  in  a  terrified  fashion — the  pupils  of  her  large 
eyes  have  dilated  nervously. 

"Dolores,  what  are  you  saying?"  exclaims  Bouverie, 
shocked  by  her  expression. 

Taking  down  her  uplifted  hand,  he  holds  it  closely  in 
his  own.  His  touch  seems  to  soothe  her.  She  sighs 
painfully,  and  then  all  at  once  the  frightened  look  van- 
ishes, and  a  smile,  sweet  but  languid,  returns  to  her  lips. 

"  I  have  been  talking  nonsense,"  she  says,  with  an  at- 
tempt at  lightness.  "  But  still,  do  you  know  " — looking 
at  him  with  a  pathetic  meaning — "I  feel  very  heavy  at 
heart.  Do  not  tell  your  mother,  Dick — for  my  sake! 
Will  not  our  love  be  all  the  sweeter  if  but  known  to  us 
two  alone?"  She  creeps  closer  to  him.  and  lays  her  cheek 
coaxingly  in  a  childish  fashion  against  his.  "  Let  our 
secret  be  a  secret  for  a  little  while!  Only  auntie  need 
know — and,  after  all,  auntie  is  one  with  us." 

"  It  shall  be  all  exactly  as  you  wish,"  says  Dick,  caresa-i 
ing  her.  "But  my  father?  He  at  least  might  know. 
He  will  not  betray  us;  and  he  is  very  dear  to  me.  Do 
not  forbid  him  to  be  a  sharer  in  my  joy!" 

"Our  joy!"  she  says,  tenderly.  "  "ISfes,  tell  him.  But 
do  not  let  your  mother  know  for  a  while." 

"  We'll  make  it  an  elopement  case,  if  you  like,  and 
then  she  need  never  know  of  our  engagement  at  least," 
returns  Bouverie,  laughing. 

His  change  of  manner  seems  to  reassure  her  and  rouse 
her  from  her  vague  fears. 

"You  grow  frivolous!"  she  says,  austerely.  "It  it 
time,  evidently,  to  think  of  home. 

"  But  how  is  your  foot  new?" 

"  Really  better  this  time." 

"  Well,  let  me  bathe  it  once  more,  and  then  we  will 
think  of  rising  up  and  going  on  our  way." 

Again  his  hat,  now  in  a  limp  and  wretched  state,  is 
plunged  into  the  flowing  river.  Again  her  little  foot  is 
tenderly  bathed  by  the  most  loving  hands  in  the  world. 
When  he  has  dried  it  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  very 
carefully,  lest  he  should  hurt  it,  he  stoops  and  imprints  4 
kisi  upon  the  snowy,  arekj)!  the  jftstep. 


^'Darling  foot!  My  OWL  icotr  he  whispers  r,oit  very 
low. 

Miss  Lome  draws  it  away  from  him  with  a  pretty  pre- 
lense  of  petulance. 

"  If  you  love  my  foot  more  than  me,  I  shall  be  jealous 
c*  it  and  lead  it  a  bad  life,"  she  says,  with  a  soft  blush. 
"But" — starting  anxiously — "we  really  must  go  now! 
I  think" — with  some  embarrassment — "if  you  were  togc 
and  sit  just  over  there,  on  that  big  stone — see  it? — with 
your  back  to  me,  I  could  manage  to  get  on  my — my  shoe 
again!" 

"Get  on  your  stocking,"  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  who  scorns 
•ubterfuge;  "  but  never  mind  the  shoe — it  will  only  hurt 
jou." 

"Go  and  sit  where  I  tell  you!"  orders  Miss  Lome,  with 
sudden  dignity, very  properly  taking  no  notice  of  his  advice. 
"And  be  sure  you  don't  turn  your  head  until  I  give  you 
leave." 

She  manages  to  get  on  the  shoe  in  spite  of  him,  but  the 
walk  home  is  a  slow  one,  and  rather  painful.  However, 
she  will  not  allow  him  to  come  with  her  further  than  the 
wicket-gate  that  leads  to  the  shrubberies  and  thence  to  tho 
house. 

"  Why  can't  I  come  on  with  you  now  and  tell  Miss  Mat- 
urin  all  about  it?"  asks  Dick,  who  can  not  bear  to  picture 
her  limping  all  alone  to  the  house.  He  lingers  hopefully, 
hanging  on  to  the  top  bar  of  the  gate,  as  though  loath  to 
let  her  go. 

"  No;  it  will  be  a  little  fcf.ook  to  her,  and  I  would  rather 
tell  her  myself.  But  don't  be  afraid  of  that" — sweetly — 
"  I  know  she  will  be  pleased;  only — I  have  been  her  baby, 
you  see,  for  so  long  that  she  will  hate  to — to  divide  me 
with  another.  Do  you  know,  Dick  " — turning  to  him 
thoughtfully  in  the  calm  twilight,  and  upraising  her  lucent 
eyes  to  his — •"  I  was  going  to  say  to  part  with  me;  but  you 
would  never  try  to  part  auntie  and  me,  would  you?" 

"I  would  not  indeed,"  says  Dick  very  earnestly. 

"  Good-bye  now  until  to-morrow." 

She  stands  on  tip- toe  and  slips  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
holds  up  her  face  to  his  without  a  suspicion  of  mauvaise 
honte,  and  kisses  him  with  all  the  passionate  warmth  of  a 
loving  child. 

Then  she  turns  away  and  goes  slowly  down  the  pack 


86  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

that  leads  her  from   him— slowly  always,  but  presently 
more  slowly  still,  until  at  last  she  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 

All  this  he  notes,  leaning  still  upon  the  little  rustic  gate, 
and  watching  her  every  movement  with  a  jealous  care. 

When  she  does  come  to  a  stand-still,  she  looks  round, 
and,  after  a  short  hesitation,  comes  back  to  him,  and  is 
once  again  received  within  his  willing  arms. 

"1  have  come  back,"  she  says,  laughing  rather  shyly, 
vid  very  much  out  of  breath  from  her  exertion,  "  because 
I  felt  sure  you  were  feeling  lonely  without  me.  I  knew 
that  because" — she  laughs  again  here  rather  confusedly, 
and  refuses  to  let  her  eyes  meet  his — "  because  " — softly 
— "  I  felt  so  awfully  lonely  without  youl" 

"  My  sweet  little  soul!"  says  Dick. 

"  Before  I  go — for  really,"  whispers  she,  smoothing  the 
short  hair  from  his  temples  with  nervous,  loving  fingers 
— "  say — say  it  all  over  again!" 

"  I  love,  love,  love  you!"  whispers  he  back,  straining 
her  to  his  heart,  with  a  true  lover's  instinct  guessing  the 
answer  to  her  vague  request.  There  is  something  akin  to 
thankfulness  within  his  heart  as  he  holds  her  in  his  arms, 
and  looks  into  her  beautiful  earnest  eyes,  and  knows  the 
power  of  the  pure  love  for  her  that  has  reached  a  perfect 
growth  within  his  heart. 

As  for  her,  tremulous  tears  have  risen  in  her  eyes,  and, 
though  her  smile  still  lingers,  it  is  now  graver,  more  tender. 

"  I  love  you  too,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice;  "  and  shall 
for  ever  and  ever!" 

There  is  something  that  is  almost  solemn  in  her  glance 
as  she  withdraws  herself  from  his  embrace  and  once  more 
moves  away.  At  the  corner  she  turns  and  waves  to  him 
a  last  adieu.  Nothing  is  left  him  now  but  the  pale  far- 
off  shimmer  of  her  white  gown  as  it  gleams  here  and  there; 
through  the  trees  lighted  by  the  early  summer  moon  that? 
is  already  sailing  tranquilly  through  the  pale  blue  ether 
up  above.  With  an  almost  absurd  anxiety  he  watches  the 
white  robe  appear  and  disappear.  Now  it  is  here — now 
gone — now  is  come  again,  and  now  indeed  is  altogether 
lost!  But,  all  is  not  lost  with  it!  Hope  remains,  and 
love,  and  the  memory  of  her. 

"  My  love,  mine  own  spur's  heart,  more  dear 

Than  mine  own  soul, 
Who  hath  mv  being  between  the  hands  of  her  * 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAKT.  8T 

A  star  has  come  out  in  the  heavens,  one  pale  tranquil 
thing,  above  in  the  vast  dome.  To  Dolores,  his  heart's 
queen,  he  likens  it,  as  he  takes  his  homeward  way. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SLOWLY,  a  little  reluctantly,  Mr.  Bouverie's  love  makes 
her  progress  to  the  house.  She  tries  to  believe  she  is  in 
mad  haste  to  tell  her  tale,  yet  welcomes  gladly  any  delay 
that  kindly  nature  offers  her.  Here  she  stops  beside  a 
flower-bed  to  pluck  a  glowing  "  Anne  Boleyn,"  and  be- 
heads it,  like  its  mournful  namesake,  under  a  mistaken 
impression  that  she  wants  it  to  make  her  room  more 
sweet;  and  here  she  lingers  to  hearken  to  the  singing  of 
some  sleepy  bird,  trying  earnestly — oh,  cruel  child  1 — to 
believe  it  a  cry  of  pain.  And  anon  she  stoops  to  lift  a 
tiny  beetle  crossing  the  graveled  pathway,  and,  laying  it 
tenderly  upon  the  scented  grass,  speeds  it  kindly  home- 
ward. 

All  these  delays  are  so  many  wily  devices  of  hers  to 
lengthen  out  her  road  and  ward  off  for  a  season  tne  im- 
pending interview.  It  had  seemed  so  easy  to  say  she 
would  tell  auntie  all  about  it;  but,  now  that  the  time  for 
telling  draws  so  nigh,  it  appears  to  her  terribly  hard. 
How  is  she  to  begin ?  What  words  must  she  use?  What 
if  her  news  should  be  unfavorably  received?  For  the 
first  time  it  occurs  to  her  that  auntie  is  tremendously 
tall!  Yes,  it  will  indeed  be  difficult  to  approach  her. 
Oh,  if  she  should  laugh  at  her,  and  tell  her  she  is  a  silly 
baby — too  young  a  child  to  know  what  true  love  means! 
What  then?  "The  Deluge!"  says  Miss  Lome  to  herself. 

At  the  laurustinus  her  heart  had  first  begun  to  fail  her; 
now  that  she  is  at  the  hall-door  there  is  not  left  to  her  so 
much  as  one  poor  shred  of  courage.  She  mounts  the 
stone  steps,  and,  with  her  suffering  "Anne  Boleyn" 
clasped  to  suffocation  in  her  little  trembling  hand,  enters 
the  open  door  and  moves  quickly  up  the  grim  old  hall. 

It  is  half  past  six  by  the  big  clock — later  than  she  had 
imagined.  But  lovers'  hours  are  long.  By  this  time 
Lallie  will  be  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  lost  in  her 
"  Times,"  or  perhaps.  "^Belinda" — most  probably  indeed 
the  latter. 


88  DICK'S    SWEETHEAM. 

Opening  the  door  with  all  the  outward  seeming  of  » 
Caesar,  but  with  a  quaking  heart,  she  enters  the  room. 
Yes,  auntie  is  here  with  her  «'  Belinda/'  and  the  fat  Skye, 
and  the  cat  and  tea. 

"You  have  come!"  cries  Miss  Maturin,  starting  into 
life,  and  letting  both  "  Belinda"  and  the  Skye  slide  from 
her  with  a  little  dull  thud  to  the  floor— treatment  the 
Skye  resents  with  numerous  snuffles  and  a  succession  of 
spasmodic  barks  that  threaten  to  choke  him  every  mov 
ment  and  bring  him  to  an  untimely  grave. 

"  How  long  you  have  been!  Not  long  really,  I  sup- 
pose; but  I  am  always  fussy,  you  see,  and  of  course  I  miss 
you.  Foolish  old  women  like  me  are  sure  to  be  trouble* 
some.  Come  over  here,  darling,  and  have  your  tea." 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  finished  your  tea  by  this 
time." 

"  Well,  so  I  should  if  you  had  been  with  me;  but  I  put 
it  off  as  long  as  I  could,  waiting  for  you;  then  I  grew 
greedy  " — with  a  soft  laugh. 

"  Ah,  why  did  you  wait?"  says  Dolores.  She  draws 
nearer,  and,  kneeling  down  beside  Miss  Maturin,  slips  her 
arms  round  her  waist.  "  I  have  been  unkind  to  you, 
Lallie,"  she  says,  in  remorseful  accents.  "I  should  not 
have  left  you  alone  for  such  a  long,  long  time." 

"Nonsense,  my  kitten!  I  have  been  as  happy  as  pos- 
sible. Conceited  child!  Do  you  then  think  I  can  not  live 
without  you?" 

"  I  do — because  I  know  I  could  not  live  without  you  I" 
In  her  manner  there  is  a  subdued  but  tender  rush  of  feel- 
ing. She  draws  her  auntie's  face  down  close  to  her  and 
folds  her  in  a  warm  embrace. 

There  is  something  so  fervent  in  the  kiss  the  girl  be- 
stows upon  her  that  Miss  Maturin  is  slightly  but  uncon- 
sciously awakened  by  it  to  the  inevitable  ending  of  this 
drama.  She  puts  Dolores  back  from  her,  and  gazes  at  her 
earnestly. 

"  How  sweet  you  are  looking!"  she  says  fondly — "  but 
a  little  pale,  as  it  seems  to  me.  Did  your  walk  fatigue 
tour 

"  Oh,  nolw 

"You  enjoyed  it?" 

"Very,  very  much,"  says  Dolores,  with  unthinking 
force.  Then  she  colottl  crunson  beneath  her  aunt's  sera* 


DICE'S    SWEETHEART.  8* 

tiny,  and,  rising  to  her  feet,  goes  over  to  the  window, 
where  her  features  at  least  are  beyond  observation. 

Sinking  into  the  cushioned  old-fashioned  seat,  she 
turns  her  face  eastward  and  gazes  dreamily  upon  the  fast 
darkening  landscape  outside.  Slowly  the  shades  of  gentle 
night  are  descending,  spreading  a  flimsy  pall  over  earth 
and  sea,  through  which  the  trembling  moonbeams  soon 
will  make  a  way. 

Mingled  with  the  soft  calm  twilight  is  a  tinge  of  mel- 
ancholy— a  birth  of  sorrow,  plaintive,  vague,  shadowy, 
but  felt.  It  mingles  with  the  air  and  fills  all  the  dusky 
corners  cf  the  rose-garden.  There  comes  a  moan  from 
the  ocean,  and  from  the  village — far,  far  away — the  solemn 
tolling  of  a  passing  bell. 

Miss  Maturin  has  taken  up  her  knitting.  The  girl, 
with  bent  head  and  graceful  white-robed  figure,  is  pon- 
dering the  subtleties  of  life  and  death.  A  delicate  fra- 
grance of  dying  flowers  comes  from  the  pleasaunce  with- 
out. 

With  a  little  sigh,  Dolores  raises  her  slender  figure  into 
a  more  upright  position,  and  prepares  herself  for  the  mo- 
ment that  shall  make  a  third  person  a  participator  in  her 
sweet  secret. 

"  Lallie!"  she  says  very  slowly,  and  then  pauses;  she 
draws  herself  well  within  the  shelter  of  the  lace  curtains 
and  waits  guiltily  for  some  encouragement  to  proceed. 

"Well,  darling?"  asks  Miss  Maturin,  plaoidly,  picking 
up  a  dropped  stitch. 

"Were — were  you  ever  in  love,  Lallie?" 

Miss  Maturin  laughs,  with  a  certain  sense  of  amuse- 
ment. As  yet  the  truth  is  far  from  her. 

"  No,  my  dear — never,"  she  says,  so  promptly  as  to 
preclude  all  possibility  of  doubt. 

Dolores  seems  disappointed. 

"  I  thought  perhaps — you  have  such  a  sweet,  sad  ex. 
pression  that — that — " 

"I  had  been  disappointed  in  love,  and  was  still  pining 
for  the  refractory  one?"  supplies  Miss  Maturin,  gayly. 
"  No,  no;  I  never  loved  any  man,  I  never  felt  that  I  should 
like  to  love  any  man.  I  suppose  this  confession  will  make 
me  suffer  horribly  in  your  esteem;  but  the  fact  is,  I  had 
only  two  offers  in  all  my  life,  so  that  my  range  of  choice 
Was  not  unlimited,." 


9Q  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  But  chose  two?"  says  Dolores,  who,  being  in  love  her- 
self, feels  of  course  soft-hearted  and  inclined  to  the  belief 
that  one  of  the  two  discarded  ones  must  surely  have  been 
worthy  of  favor. 

"  As  for  them,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  with  quite  youthful 
vivacity,  "why,  I  remember  them  as  though  it  were  only 
yesterday!" 

"What — both  of  them?"  asks  Dolores,  curiously. 

"Yes,  both,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  with  disgraceful  en- 
joyment in  her  recollection.  "Heavens,  what  a  snuffy 
old  man  the  first  was!  He  might  have  been  my  grand- 
father then — my  father  even  now.  He  hadn't  a  tooth 
in  his  venerable  head,  and  his  gold-headed  stick  was  the 
only  useful  leg  he  possessed," 

"And  the  other?"  asked  Dolores;  but  there  is  only 
faint  hope  in  her  tone.  Had  there  been  any  sweet,  sad 
recollection  in  her  past,  auntie  could  not  have  possibly 
answered  her  in  that  jubilant  fashion. 

"The  other!  Oh,  dear  me,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  laying 
her  knitting  down  to  idle  upon  her  knees,  and  knitting 
her  brows  instead,  "  when  I  think  of  that  young  man,  I 
always  wonder  why  it  was  he  was  allowed  to  go  about  alone 
without  a  keeper.  It  couldn't  have  been  want  of  funds, 
as  he  was  immensely  rich — quite  a  millionaire,  poor  soul!" 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  him?"  asks  Dolores,  dis- 
carding the  protection  of  the  lace  curtains  in  her  anxiety 
to  hear  the  true  and  unvarnished  tale  of  this  sad  wooer. 
"Was  he—" 

"Yts,  he  was,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  agreeably — "quite 
mad!  He  was  about  the  very  worst  lunatic  any  one  ever 
»aw  out  of  an  asylum.  If  he  had  been  just  one  shade  nearer 
perfection  in  his  own  line  of  business,  he  would  have  made 
intimate  acquaintance  with  Colney  Hatch;  but  no  such 
luck  was  mine;  he  remained  a  harmless  imbecile  just  to' 
torment  me." 

With  an  injured  shake  of  her  handsome  head,  Miss 
Maturin  resumes  her  stocking. 

The  girl's  gaze  still  wanders  dreamily  outward. 

"  What  an  evening  it  is!"  she  says  at  last,  in  a  low  voice 
full  of  intensest  admiration.  "  See  how  those  pale  clouds 
have  dropped,  as  it  were,  into  the  very  heart  of  the  oceanl 
What  a  perfect  mingling!  What  a  clear,  calm  light! 
Look  at  that  opalescent  bar  over  there.'" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  81 

"A  fair  evening  indeed!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  gazing 
with  a  deep  satisfaction  at  the  far-off  horizon.  "  A  most 
exquisite  mingling!  A  very  '  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky!' " 

"A  bridal?"  repeats  Dolores,  softly,  flushing  a  deli- 
cate pink.  "Shall  I  ever  be  a  bride,  auntie?  Do  you 
ever  think  that  some  day  perhaps  I  shall?" 

"A  bride?  No,  no,  it  is  impossible! "  exclaims  Miss 
Muturin,  with  sudden  curious  vehemence.  She  looks 
askance  at  her  niece,  and  a  quick  pallor  overspreads  her 
face.  One  might  almost  imagine  that  it  was  terror  itself 
had  blanched  it.  She  sighs  heavily,  and  sinks  back  in 
her  chair,  as  one  might  who  has  been  touched  and  scorched 
by  a  breath  of  passing  fear. 

"  Why,  auntie,"  says  Dolores,  gazing  at  her  with  largt 
star  tied  "eyes,  "what  is  it  you  say?"  Then  timidly — 
"  Why  should  it  be  impossible?  Other  girls  get  married." 

"Ay,  other  girls!"  said  Miss  Maturin,  in  a  low  voice 
akin  to  a  groan.  She  seems  to  have  lost  all  her  self-con- 
trol, and  the  words  fall  from  her  as  though  in  despite  of 
her  will. 

"Am  I  then  different  from  all  the  rest?"  questions 
Dolores,  with  a  smile.  It  is  a  rather  wistful  smile.  What 
if  Lallie  should  disapprove  of  her  engagement  and  look 
coldly  on  her  Dick? 

"  Why  should  you  imagine  that?"  says  Miss  Maturin, 
hastily.  "Tut,  child.  You  must  not  mind  me."  She 
is  speaking  more  lightly  now,  and  has  evidently  recovered 
in  part  her  usual  manner.  "  Forget  what  I  have  said,  or 
remember  only  that  the  very  thought  of  parting  with  you 
causes  me  such  pain  that  words  slipped  from  me  that — 
— that  were  unmeant.  To  lose  you  now — after  all  these 
years! " 

"  We  should  not  be  parted,"  says  Dolores,  gravely. 
"Have  I  not  just  told  you  that  I  could  not  live  without 
you?  We  two  shall  never  part,  Lallie,  be  sure  of  that." 

"  Well,  well,  sweetheart,  the  subject  grows  too  much 
for  us,  and  we  ourselves  are  needlessly  thoughtful  over  a 
dream  that  may  never  be  fulfilled.  'Sufficient  unto  the 
day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  *  Miss  Maturin,  as  she  says  this, 
•miles  faintly. 

"Why  should  it  be  evil?"  asks  Dolores,  regarding  her 
•arnestly — perhaps  reproachfully.  To  call  a  marriage 
With  Dick  an  "evill" 


92  DICK'S    SWEETHEABT. 

"Why,  indeed?"  says  Miss  Maturin,  with  an  attempt 
at  lightness.  "  But  tell  me  of  your  walk,  darling  child. 
Where  did  you  go?  Whom  did  you  meet?  Nobody,  I 
fear,  in  this  quiet  neighborhood.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid 
you  will  learn  what  loneliness  really  means  during  your 
solitary  rambles." 

"  I  was  not  solitary  to-day,"  says  Dolores.  "I  did 
meet  somebody." 

Her  pale  cheeks  glow  and  he*  sensitive  mouth  trem- 
bles as  she  makes  this  confession;  but  to  deceive  Lalliein 
any  way  would  be  not  only  abhorrent  to  her,  but  indeed 
utterly  impossible. 

"I  met  —  Mr.  Bouverie."  She  had  almost  said 
"  Dick,"  and  now  feels  remorseful  at  heart,  and  as 
though  she  has  in  some  way  been  unkind  to  her  lover  by 
the  use  of  his  more  formal  appellation. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  unsuspiciously. 
"I  like  that  young  man;  he  is  so  bright,  so  natural!  Did 
you  meet  him  soon  after  you  left  me?" 

"As  I  got  down  to  the  river,  he  came  there  too,"  gays 
Dolores,  leaning  forward  eagerly  and  speaking  with  glad 
interest.  Her  beautiful  eyes  are  sparkling;  she  has  found 
a  mine  of  happiness  in  those  words — "  I  like  that  young 
man."  Yes,  yes,  she  knew  it!  Who  could  help  liking 
him?  "  He  stayed  there  with  me  all  the  time,"  she  goes 
on  nervously,  "until  I  said  I  should  come  home;  and 
then  he  walked  back  with  me.  And  he  wanted  to  come 
in  and  see  you;  but — "  Her  voice  dies  away. 

Miss  Maturin  makes  no  reply,  She  is  feeling  numbed 
and  sick  at  heart.  Whatever  cruel  thing  is  gnawing  at 
her  heart  is  doing  its  work  effectually;  the  girl's  last 
words  are  working  into  her  brain.  "  Three  long  hours," 
she  says  to  herself — "  three  long  hours!"  An  expression 
of  sickening  anxiety  grows  upon  her  white  face,  and  there 
is,  too,  a  strange,  mournful,  despairing  look  about  her  as 
she  glances  furtively  at  the  pretty  dainty  figure  in  the 
window,  sitting  with  calm,  folded  hands  and  with  a  light 
as  of  Heaven  within  in  her  happy  eyes. 

"  Lallie,"  says  Dolores,  after  a  lengthened  pause,  "  do 

you   think  that  people — who   have  never   been   in   love 

themselves — can   sympathize   with   or  understand  those 

who — who  do  love?" 

Grayer  and  grayer  growg  Miss  Maturin's  face.     Reluc- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  % 

tantly  she  compels  herself  to  gaze  upon  the  girl's  flushed, 
averted  features,  and  then  a  great  change  sweeps  over 
her.  First  there  is  passionate  regret — and  then  desola- 
tion— and  then  despair. 

But  she  masters  herself!  Love,  the  all-powerful,  helpg 
her  to  do  this;  for  the  girl  must  never  know.  It  is  a 
wonderful  mastery  over  self  however,  and  proves  th« 
strength  of  the  soul  within  her;  but  it  tears  her  heart  in 
twain.  Her  lips  are  bloodless;  there  is  however  a  smile 
upon  them  as  she  turns  boldly  and  answers  the  girl  who  is 
f.he  sole  thing  she  clings  to  upon  earth. 

"  I  do,  indeed/'  she  says  quietly.  Alas  for  the  cruel 
strain  that  gives  this  calm!  "Do  you  mean  that  I  could 
not  sympathize  with,  let  as  say,  you  in  such  a  case?  And 
so  you  are  in  love,  child?" 

She  has  risen  from  her  seat,  and  Dolores  has  risen  too. 

"  Oh,  Lallie!  oh,  dear,  dear  Lallie!"  she  cries  tremu- 
lously, turning  a  face  now  pale  as  a  new-born  snowdrop 
to  Miss  Maturin.  She  makes  a  step  forward  and  holds 
out  her  arms.  "Ah,  love  me  still!"  she  cries,  a  little 
incoherently  perhaps,  but  with  an  intuitive  fear  that  Miss 
Maturin  might  think  herself  forgotten,  neglected,  thrust 
from  the  first  place  in  her  tender  heart.  Almost  it  seems 
to  her  that  she — she  has  been  the  one  to  inflict  a  lasting 
injury  upon  that  faithful  soul,  who  has  been  to  her  all 
that  her  lost  mother  possibly  could  be. 

"It  is  so,"  says  Miss  Maturin;  she  has  the  frail  little 
figure  in  a  close  embrace  by  this  time,  and  is  bending 
over  it  in  speechless  grief,  a  grief  unknown  to,  unguessed 
by  Dolores.  "I  am  'dear  Lallie'  and  he  is  'dearest 
Dick'  for  the  future,  is  not  that  it?" 

There  is  no  answer,  only  the  soft  arms  cling  to  her  and 
the  pretty  rings  of  hair  stir  uneasily  upon  her  breast. 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  Dick?"  comes  in  a  little 
whisper  to  her  presently. 

"Have  I  no  eyes  in  my  head?  And  yet —  No,  I 
knew  nothing  until  five  minutes  ago;  your  manner  told 
me.  "Well,  I  am  content  to  take  second  place;  at  least,  I 
am  second — is  it  not?" 

"No,"  said  Dolores  firmly,  throwing  back  her  head 
and  looking  earnestly  at  her  aunt,  "  not  that!  These 
two  loves  I  hold  now  within  my  heart  are  so  different, 
yet  both  so  great,  that  1  could  not  make  one  second  to 


94  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

the  other.     He  is  first  in  his,  yon  are  first  in  yours;  you 
shall  never  be  second,  my  own  Lallie!" 

"  Fond  little  heart!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  pressing  tho 
sunny  head  down  once  again  upon  her  breast.  She  is, 
after  all,  happier  when  the  child's  innocent  eyee  are  not 
looking  into  hers.  "And  so  you  love  him  well?"  she 
says. 

"And  he  loves  me.  Is  it  not  ail  quite  wonderful?" 
She  passes  over  her  aunt's  question  as  though  it  requires 
no  answer — which  in  truth  it  does  not.  "He  wanted  to 
tell  his  mother  about — about  it  all;  but  I  said  only  you 
should  know  of  it  just  yet;  there  is  plenty  of  time  to — " 

"Yes,  yes — time,  time!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  with 
agitation.  "That  is  the  principal  thing.  Let  us  keep  it 
a  secret  between  us  three  as  long  as  we  can;  it — it  will  be 
so  much  happier  for  you — for  us  all — no  one  prying  or 
asking  questions — or —  Yes,  let  it  be  quite  a  secret!" 
She  ceases,  and  laughs  almost  hysterically.  "  Don't  you 
see,"  she  says  nervously,  "how  much  better  it  would  be?" 
"  So  I  said,"  murmurs  Dolores  eagerly.  "  It  seems  even 
sweeter — our  love  I  mean  " — shyly — "  when  only  you  and 
I  and  Dick  know  of  it;  you — you  are  pleased  about  it, 
auntie?" 

"I  have  but  one  thought  about  it,  and  that  is  what  is 
best  for  your  happiness." 

"Dick  is  best,"  returns  she,  with  a  coy  little  laugh. 
"Don't  you  think  so,  Lallie?" 
"I  suppose  so,  darling." 

"Why  don't  you  say  something  nice  about  him  then? 
Is  he  not  the  best  and  dearest  fellow  in  all  the  world?  Is 
he  not  handsome? 

"  Not  so  handsome  as  his  brother." 
"  As  Bruno?    Oh,  auntie,  what  on  earth  are  you  think- 
ing about?    Dick  not  handsomer  than  Bruno!   Why,  they 
are  not  to  be  compared  in  the  same  breath!    Just  look  at 
Dick's  eyes!" 

She  pauses,  as  though  waiting  for  Miss  Maturin  to  per- 
form this  feat,  which,  as  Mr.  Bouverie  at  the  present 
moment  is  five  miles  away,  would  be  a  difficult  one.  Miss 
Lome's  next  remark  however  would  lead  the  unwary  to 
believe  that  it  has  been  performed. 

"  Now  I  hope  you  see  how  wrong  you  were,"  she  say«, 
with  a  triumph  in  voice  and  eyes.  "  Why,  Bruno  isn't 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  95 

fit  to  be  named  in  the  same  day  with  him.  Say  yon  love 
Dick,  Lallie,  or  I  can't  be  quite  happy." 

"  I  think  he  is  the  most  charming  young  man  I  know. 
He  is  the  one  I  would  have  chosen  for  you,"  says  poor 
Miss  Maturin,  driven  to  say  this  with  a  sinking  heart. 
Then,  the  tension  she  has  laid  upon  herself  becoming  too 
strong  to  be  longer  borne,  she  gives  way  a  little.  "Go, 
Dolores,  go!"  she  cries  faintly.  "  Go  to  your  room."  A 
passionate  longing  to  be  alone  is  consuming  her.  She 
speaks  with  a  studied  coolness  that  is  but  a  remnant  of 
the  departing  calm.  Then,  seeing  her  darling's  grieved 
surprise  at  the  unwonted  severity  of  her  tone,  she  nerves 
herself  once  more.  "  Go,  my  heloved,"  she  says  tenderly; 
"  it  is  late.  You  have  not  dressed  yourself  and  dinner 
will  soon  be  ready.  We  can  discuss  your  great  news  later 
on." 

Dolores  silently  obeys  her;  but,  when  she  gets  to  the 
door,  almost  as  she  touches  the  handle  of  it,  some  thought 
strikes  her.  She  wavers,  turns,  and  finally,  running  back 
again,  flings  her  arms  round  Miss  Matnrin's  neck. 

"You  know  I  love  you,  Lallie,  don't  you?  You  are 
not  jealous  of  him?  You  are  not  lonely,  or  sorry,  or  any- 
thing, are  you?  That  would  break  my  heart.  You  feel 
quite  sure -of  my  love?" 

"  I  do,  my  dearest  child!"  Her  voice  is  low  and  broken 
with  emotion. 

"  That  is  what  I  am  to  you — your  child?" 

"  My  own  child!  Truly  I  feel  toward  you  more  as  a 
mother  than  an  aunt." 

"  And  I  am  sure,"  says  Dolores,  softly,  "  that,  could 
my  mother  be  given  back  to  me  now,  I  should  never  learn 
to  love  her  as  I  love  you." 

When  the  door  has  closed  behind  Dolores,  and  she  is 
indeed  gone,  when  the  very  last  echo  of  her  light  footfall 
has  ceased  upon  the  polished  boards  beyond,  a  change 
comes  over  Miss  Maturin.  Her  hands  fall  to  her  sides, 
her  face  grows  ashen.  All  in  one  pitifully  short  moment 
•he  seems  to  have  become  an  old  woman.  Despair  shines 
dully  within  her  eyes,  and  gives  a  desolate  curve  to  her 
lips.  Despair,  too,  is  in  her  heart,  and  a  terror  that  hag 
long  lain  dormant — the  fear  of  discovery. 

To  possess  a  secret— j*  sinlesi  one  .so  far  as  she  herself 


96  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

and  the  creature  she  loves  best  on  earth  are  concerned—, 
has  been  Miss  Maturin's  doom — a  cruel  secret  that  ha« 
touched  her — though  from  without — and  burned  into  her 
and  made  her  life  for  many  years  a  burden  almost  too 
great  to  be  borne. 

Oh,  the  days  and  the  long,  sleepless  nights  of  anguish 
and  the  years  of  bitter  grief,  filled  to  overflowing  with  a 
vain  regret!  There  had  been,  too,  wild  moments  in  which 
passionate  anger  made  havoc  of  her  strength,  and  in  which 
prevailed  a  longing  for  revenge — never  to  be  fulfilled. 
And  then  had  come  calm  and  a  strange  new  love  exceed- 
ing all  that  had  gone  before  it,  born  of  the  clinging  arms 
and  the  innocent  kisses  of  a  little  child  who  had  wound 
herself  round  her  heart-strings,  and  in  process  of  years 
had  grown  into  a  child  with  sad  eyes  as  a  heritage,  and  a 
sensitive  mouth,  and  a  beauty  exceeding  that  of  most,  and 
a  spirit  too  great  for  her  frail  body.  Pure,  tender,  lov- 
ing, possessed  of  a  heart  that  had  learned  "  that  more 
excellent  way"  and  knew  no  guile,  and  a  soul  that  truly 
thought  no  evil  of  any  living  thing,  the  child — Dolores — 
had  grown  into  a  girl  touching  upon  the  borders  of 
womanhood. 

As  a  little  one,  she  had  been  gentle  and — for  a  child^- 
wonderfully  unselfish.  As  a  girl,  she  is  still  more  gentle, 
"  believing  all  things  "  that  will  help  her  to  reverence  her 
kind,  and  "  hoping  all  things  "for  them — a  little  reserved 
in  manner  perhaps,  because  of  her  persistent  isolation  in 
her  childhood  from  those  of  her  own  age,  but  neverthe- 
less loving,  calm  and  restful  in  manner,  and  with  an  un- 
known— because  untried — but  terrible  capacity  for  en- 
durance. 

"  0  most  sweet  spirit,  what  place  is  there  for  you  in 
this  cold  sneering  world?"  is  Miss  Maturin's  thought. 

Miss  Maturin,  with  a  little  indescribable  gesture, 
rouses  herself  from  her  lethargy,  and  in  an  angry  fashion 
— as  though  impatient  of  fate  and  its  sad  decrees— paces 
up  and  down  the  long  drawing-room.  Memory,  glad  and 
bitter,  troubles  her;  but,  above  all,  the  girl's  beautiful 
face  and  still  more  beautiful  sou]  sadden  her.  "  Is  there 
no  grace?  Is  there  no  remedy?" 

Miss  Maturin,  coming  to  a  stand-still  by  the  lower  win- 
dow, gazes  out  absently  upon  the  glories  of  the  dying  day. 
Are  all  her  hopes  to  die  us  dies  the  sun,  or  is  there  still  a 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  97 

promise  for  her  in  the  thought  that  lie  will  rise  again  to- 
morrow? 

"  Have  pity  upon  me  now,  kind  Heaven,  in  this  my 
hour  of  need,"  she  whispers  feverishly,  bringing  her 
palms  together.  "Yet  it  is  for  her  I  pray — for  her,  not 
for  myself.  Spare  her!  Let  me  be  forgotten;  but  have 
her  ever  in  merciful  remembrance!  Let  me  suffer;  but 
save  her!" 

She  raises  one  hand  to  her  head  in  a  distracted  fashion. 
The  agony  of  her  mind  is  reflected  upon  her  face,  which 
is  white  and  drawn. 

"  If  he  must  be  told — if  all  is  to  be  opened  up  afresh — 
what  am  I  to  say — to  do?  And  she — ignorant,  unknow- 
ing, it  will  kill  her!  Alas,  alas — my  lamb — my  innocent 
one!"  A  sob  checks  her.  "  Why  need  he  ever  know?" 
she  murmurs,  her  pale  lips  growing  still  more  pallid. 
"Why  not  conceal  it  to  the  end,  and  trust  to  chance  to 
befriend  her?  Who  is  there  here  to  betray  us?  And  yet 
if  at  any  time  fate  should  throw  in  her  path  one  who 
knew!  But  there  are  so  few  who  know.  And,  once  his 
wife,  she  would  be  safe,  even  should  the  truth  come  out. 
But  as  to  her  mind!  Knowledge  of  that  sort  coming  too 
late  would  destroy  her — would  break  her  loyal  heart. 
No;  she  could  not  endure  the  shame  to  him!  Oh" — 
stretch  ing  out  her  arms  to  the  darkening  heavens — "  how 
difficult  is  life!  With  what  torn  and  bleeding  feet  the 
pure  must  tread  the  world!  How  can  I  help  her — how?" 

Her  head  sinks  upon  her  breast,  and  for  a  little  time 
she  remains  lost  in  thought;  then  she  sighs  wearily  and 
sinks,  as  though  overcome  with  bitter  conclusions,  into  a 
lounging-chair. 

"  The  truth — the  truth  is  best!"  she  murmurs  broken- 
ly. "  He  shall  know  the  worst  before  he  weds  her.  For 
her  sake  I  will  run  no  risks.  There  shall  be  no  after-dis- 
covery. To  him  I  shall  confide  all;  but  she  shall  never 
know;  I  will  not  have  her  sweet  life  darkened!  But,  when 
he  hears  her  story,  how  will  it  be  with  him  then?  Will 
his  love  be  strong  enough  to  bear  the  strain?  If  so,  all 
— will  be  well;  if  not — "  Her  voice  sinks,  and  a  shadow 
coming  from  the  gathering  night  falls  athwart  the  room. 
'•If  it  must  be,  so  be  it,"  she  says  at  last,  faintly.  "  For 
her  sake  I  shall  bring  myself  even  to  the  betrayal  of  my 
dead.  After  all" — wearily — "old  griefs  are  never  buried; 


98  DICERS    SWEETHEART. 

they  come  to  us  again  and  again  when  we  believe  ourselves 
free  from  them  forever.  Aud  yet  I  should  have  expected 
this.  With  her  angel  face  some  day  it  should  be.  Well, 
I  shall  speak  when  the  right  time  comes;  but  not  yet, — 
not  yet!" 

A  clear  voice  rings  through  the  hall;  the  refrain  of  a 
gay  little  French  song  echoes  through  the  air;  the  door 
is  suddenly  thrown  open. 

"  Lallie — lazy  Lallie!  Here  still?"  cries  a  ringing  voice. 
"  Come — come  this  instant  and  get  yourself  ready  for  din- 
ner! I  shall  be  your  maid  to-night.  A  fig  for  Elizabeth 
and  her  old-maidish  ways!  I  alone  have  the  power  to 
make  you  as  lovely  as  nature  intended  you  should  be. 
Come — unless  you  want  cook  to  case  maledictions  upon 
your  head!" 

"  Go  before  me,  darling,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  in  a  low 
Toice. 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  village  choir  has  mercifully  ceased  from  troubling 
the  congregation  for  the  time  being.  The  ancient  and 
much  dilapidated  organ  has  sunk  into  a  fitful  slumber, 
out  of  w.iich  it  wakens  every  now  and  then  to  give  way 
to  a  dismal  scream,  as  one  after  another  the  windy  sobs 
die  out  of  the  wheezy  pipes.  These  irreverent  screams, com- 
ing at  uncertain  periods,  have  a  distinctly  demoralizing 
effect  upon  the  more  youthful  members  of  the  choir,  and 
reduce  the  school-children  sitting  demurely  upon  the 
forms  below  to  such  a  low  state  of  morality  that  it  re- 
quires only  one  shriek  more  to  bring  their  suppressed 
mirth  to  a  head  and  cause  a  dangerous  outbreak.  Upon 
the  elder  members  of  the  congregation,  however,  the  re- 
suit  of  these  screams  is  simply  depression. 

The  hot  sun  is  rushing  through  the  painted  windows 
and  casting  bright  patches  of  color  here  and  there — upon 
sober  Quakerish  bonnets  that  would  scorn  such  finery  if 
supplied  by  earth,  but  must  needs  bear  it  when  sent  from 
Heaven  direct — upon  poor  bald  heads  and  heads  most 
daintily  tressed — upon  the  rich  and  poor,  the  sinner  and 
the  saint  alike;  upon  Dolores,  sitting  with  clasped  hands 
and  a  rapt  angelic  face,  it  casts  a  brilliant  crimson  flush 
that  lights  up  her  lovely  eyes  to  greater  beauty,  and  throws 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  99 

rich  stains  upon  her  white  gown,  and  is  put  to  shame  only 
by  her  soft  parted  lips. 

Sing,  song,  sing,  song,  goes  the  curate.  His  voice  alone 
o»n  be  heard,  the  words  of  the  second  lesson  are  nowhere. 

Lady  Bouverie,  in  the  square  pew,  is  sitting  therein  in 
a  scrupulously  upright  manner,  with  an  expression  upon 
her  cold  face  that  she  fondly  believes  to  be  pious,  but  which 
is  only  disagreeable.  She  is  holding  a  Bible  straight  before 
her,  and  is  gazing  at  it  with  a  severity  as  forbidding  as 
herself,  and  with  an  air  meant  to  impress  the  congregation. 

With  a  comfortable  complacency  she  dwells  upon  the 
certainty  of  the  growing  attachment  that  exists  between 
her  elder  son  and  the  pretty  heiress  of  Greylands.  There 
has  been  no  official  announcement  of  an  engagement,  no 
taking  into  confidence  of  the  mother  by  the  son;  but  the 
former,  for  all  that,  is  as  cognizant  of  the  love  affair  as  if 
she  had  been  the  chosen  recipient  of  their  raptures.  Dol- 
ores to  Lady  Bouverie  is  what  the  fly  is  to  the  spider,  a 
thing  to  be  caught  and  devoured.  Money  is  Lady  Bou- 
Verio's  god,  and  money  is  distinctly  plentiful  with  Dolores. 
But  one  thing  perhaps  would  rank  above  it  in  the  elder 
woman's  affections,  and  that  would  be  birth;  pride  in  her 
ancient  lineage — older  even  than  her  husband's — runs 
through  every  fiber  of  her  body.  But  of  this  too  the  little 
heiress  can  boast;  of  good  people  all  through  she  comes, 
the  Maturins  being  second  to  none  in  family,  and  counting 
as  many  generations  as  most. 

That  Dolores,  pretty  fly,  should  have  so  readily  fallen 
into  her  web,  or  her  arrangements,  and  that  Dick  should 
have  followed  suit,  seems  to  his  mother  an  unprecedented 
stroke  of  good  luck.  Nothing  can  exceed  her  amiability 
just  at  this  time,  or  her  excessive  affability;  she  seems  indeed 
to  have  cultivated  a  serene  and  placid  temper  to  which  most 
assuredly  she  was  not  born.  She  lavishes  upon  Dolores — 
who  is  a' little  bewildered  by  them' — all  the  attentions  and 
caresses  of  which  she  is  capable.  The  attentions  are  sim- 
ple, the  caresses  works  of  art. 

Dolores'  fortune,  she  has  assured  herself,  is  by  many 
thousands  greater  than  that  of  any  other  marriageable 
young  lady  in  the  county.  Dolores,  she  admits,  even  to 
herself,  is  all  that  can  be  desired  in  manner  and  appear- 
ance. Her  style  is  perfect,  her  taste  unimpeachable.  As 
a  daughter-in-law,  it  will  be  qjiiite  possible  to  be  abso- 


100  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

lately  proud  of  her.  The  girl's  little  dainty,  haughtily 
set  head  can  be  seen  by  her  as  she  turns  her  glance  to  the 
right  and  looks  at  her  from  over  the  high  oaken  walls  of 
the  Bouverie  pew  that  board  her  in  on  every  side,  and 
seem  to  add  to  her  pomp  by  separating  her  so  entirely 
from  her  fellow-creatures. 

To-day  the  world  is  a  week  older  than  when  Dolores 
and  her  lover  stood  by  the  rushing  river  and  grew  glad 
because  of  the  fire  of  love  that  glowed  within  their  eyes 
and  burned  so  warmly  in  their  hearts. 

There  had  been  a  little  change  in  Dick  since  that  day, 
a  change  his  mother  had  not  been  slow  to  mark — the  glad 
abstraction  in  his  face,  his  many  reveries,  the  happy  ex- 
pectancy that  betrayed  itself  each  morning  in  his  manner 
and  spoke  of  the  blessed  certainty  that  soon  he  would  be 
face  to  face  with  "  her,"  the  restlessness  that  grew  upon 
him  with  the  evening  when  hope  of  seeing  her  failed 
Lim,  until  long  dull  hours  should  have  passed  away. 

"  The  god  of  love,  ah,  benedicite, 
How  mighty  and  how  great  a  lord  is  he  I" 

One  would  be  dense  indeed  not  to  know  when  Dick  Bou- 
verie was  in  love! 

Warmer  and  warmer  grows  the  day,  drowsy  and  drowsier 
grows  the  congregation.  Audrey  Ponsonby,  with  a  little 
imperious  gesture,  bids  Sir  Chicksy  Chaucer  open  the 
window  nearest  her  an  inch  or  two  more.  It  is  all  it  will 
open,  and  no  good  comes  to  her  from  it,  as  winds  are 
asleep  to-day  and  breezes  dead. 

"  You  should  bring  a  fan  with  you,"  whispers  her  father 
to  her  absently,  yet  in  a  tone  of  loving  concern — "  a  fan 
—eh?" 

He  is  an  elderly  man,  worn,  white,  with  the  orthodox 
stoop  of  a  book-worm.  His  likeness  to  his  sister,  Lady 
Bouverie,  is  very  striking;  but  an  observer,  studying 
both,  would  have  said  she  ought  to  be  the  man,  he  the 
woman.  In  fact,  "  dad  "  is  as  mild  and  gentle  and  sim- 
ple at  heart  as  she  is  quite  the  reverse. 

"I  must  remember  it,"  says  Audrey,  in  a  little,  soft 
whisper,  turning  upon  him  a  smile  that  lights  up  all  her 
supercilious  face,  and  softens  it  into  great  beauty.  The 
fact  that  she  possesses  but  one  fan  on  earth,  and  tliat  ona 
fit  only  for  evening  use,  she  carefully  hides  from  him. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  101 

Where  it  he  to  find  money  for  such  frivolities  M  fang> 
when  books,  the  food  of  his  soul,  are  debarred  him  be« 
cause  of  the  emptiness  of  his  purse? 

In  the  pew  opposite  to  Audrey's  Mrs.  Wemyss  ia  lean- 
ing back,  gazing  upon  space.  That  Bruno  Bouverie  is 
gazing  upon  her  is  a  fact  of  which  she  appears  utterly 
unaware.  Yet,  is  she?  There  is  something  just  a  trifle 
too  innocent  about  the  droop  of  her  pretty  mouth. 

The  vicar's  wife,  Mrs.  Dovedale,  is  sitting,  open-eyed, 
leaning  a  little  forward,  as  though  engrossed  with  the 
lesson,  of  which  not  one  word  is  intelligible  to  her.  Her 
friend,  Mrs.  Drummond,  being  fat,  forty  and  unwieldy, 
is  sighing  heavily,  and  inwardly  anathematizing  the 
scorching  sun.  Miss  Maturin,  in  an  exquisite  toilet,  ia 
reading  her  Bible  diligently.  Mr.  Vyner,  in  his  own 
pew,  somewhat  distant  from  the  rest,  is  apparently  sound 
asleep. 

More  and  more  sleepy  grow  the  people,  the  sun  more 
vigorous;  the  whole  church  seems  flushed  with  its  yellow 
light.  Naught  can  now  be  heard  but  the  response  of  the 
clerk,  as  he  helps  the  curate  through  the  Commandments. 
Through  all  the  heat  and  sunlight  and  general  languor, 
his  voice  comes  lazily. 

And  now  comes  the  sermon.  It  may  be  a  good  one — • 
it  may  be  quite  the  other  thing — who  shall  say?  Nobody 
hears  it.  Nobody  wants  to  hear  it,  which  is  very  satis- 
factory, as  they  could  not,  oven  if  they  would.  The  ex- 
treme heat  has  reduced  most  of  those  present  to  a  state 
bordering  upon  insensibility.  Even  Dolores,  with  a  swift 
inward  sense  of  remorse,  raises  her  delicately  gloved  hand 
to  her  lips  to  suppress  a  yawn.  Two  only  of  the  whole 
assembly  are  thoroughly  awake — Mrs.  Dovedale,  who,  in 
a  saintly  attitude  and  a  big  Rubens  hat,  and  with  her  half- 
cliildish,  half-malicious  smile  upon  her  lips,  is  outward- 
ly intent  upon  the  sermon  that  no  man  can  hear;  and 
Audrey  Ponsonby,  who,  leaning  back  in  her  pew  in  an  in- 
dolent fashion,  with  her  great  gloomy  eyes  wide  open,  is 
evidently  lost  in  thought,  of  a  character  as  scornful  as  it 
is  sad  with  a  vague  regret. 

"  Lastly  "  has  come;  the  curate  has  mopped  his  brow 
twice;  the  organ  has  wheezed  afresh  in  anticipation  of 
the  last  voluntary.  Mr.  Vyner  has  reached  that  point  iu 
his  slumbers  when  *  snore  may__eonfidently  be  expected. 


102  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

when  providentially  the  "  Amen  "  is  spoken,  and  all  is  at 
an  end. 

"What  a  delicious  day — but  just  a  little  too  much  of 
it!"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  as  every  one  crowds  into  the  porch 
outside  with  an  alacrity  that  betrays  their  joyfulness  at 
their  escape.  "I  do  hope  you  will  all  brave  the  heat, 
and  come  and  rouse  me  up  this  afternoon,  or  I  shall  be 
bored  to  death.  Sunday  afternoons  are  always  so  oppres- 
sive." 

She  smiles — nay,  beams  on  every  one;  she  returns 
Bruno's  warm  hand-clasp  with  a  pressure  that  leaves 
nothing  to  be  desired.  She  is  perfectly  delightful  even  to 
Lady  Bouverie,  who  is  not  quite  as  fond  of  her  as  she 
might  be. 

Yes;  most  of  those  she  addresses  will  be  charmed  to 
drop  in  to  her  during  the  afternoon.  It  is  her  usual  day 
of  reception,  and  is  generally  well  attended.  Even  Mrs. 
Drummond,  who  goes  in  for  the  heavier  type  of  religion, 
and  always  calls  Sunday  "  The  Sabbath  "  in  big  letters, 
and  makes  that  holiest  of  days  a  perfect  torment  and  a 
cause  of  life-long  regret  to  her  household,  so  far  overcomes 
her  prejudices  as  to  go  to  Mrs.  Wemyss'  every  Sunday 
evening  between  the  services.  But  then  Mrs.  Wemyss  is 
an  "  honorable,"  and  that,  according  to  Mrs.  Drummond's 
lights,  makes  such  a  difference! 

Mrs.  Dovedale  too  is  always  to  be  seen  here  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  with  her  little  curious  smile,  that  means 
nothing  or  a  great  deal. 

"So  quite  too  good  of  you  all  to  come!"  says  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  rising  from  her  garden-chair  about  two  hours 
later,  to  greet  Mrs.  Drummond,  and  comprehending  in 
her  speech  those  who  have  already  come.  She  alters  her 
style  to  suit  her  guests  at  times,  and,  therefore,  occasion- 
ally makes  rather  funny  little  speeches;  but  whatever  she 
may  choose  to  say  at  the  moment  always  becomes  her. 
She  glances  in  a  quick  flickering  fashion  at  Bruno  Bou- 
verie as  she  thus  greets  Mrs.  Drummond,  and  there  is 
something  about  the  expression  of  her  eyes  suggestive  of 
the  idea  that  she  could  laugh  were  she  to  find  herself  sud- 
denly alone.  "An  hour  ago,"  she  goes  on  smiling,  and 
clicking  her  huge  black  fan  with  as  good  a  grace  as  any 
Spanish  sefiora,  "I  feared  no  one  would  have  the  charity 
to  break  in  upon  my  monotony^and  then  I  felt  suicidal. 


MCK'S    SWEETHEART.  lU8 

At  this  Mrs.  Drummond  regards  it  as  her  direct  duty 
to  enter  a  faint  protest. 

"But  you  had  your  books  surely,"  she  say?,  with  a 
meandering  smile  —  "  your  good  books  —  your  '  De 
Quincy  '  that  I  lent  you,  your  *  Hall,'  your  '  A'Beck- 


"I  had,"  responds  Mrs.  Wemyss,  promptly;  "I  had 
them  all  in  a  row.  I  tried  them  every  one  in  turn;  and 
that,  I  am  convinced,  is  why  I  felt  so  specially  murderous 
this  afternoon!  Ah!  Miss  Maturin,  this  is  a  pleasure! 
And  you,  top,  dear  Dolores!  And!"  —  with  a  little  mis- 
chievous smile  —  "of  course  you,  Mr.  Bouverie!"  Her 
manner  is  altogether  different  now,  and  full  of  a  tender 
gladness  as  she  greets  these  last-comers. 

"It  takes  but  a  simple  intellect  to  see  how  it  is  with 
Dick,"  says  Bruno  presently,  when  his  hostess  is  once 
more  seated  in  her  garden-chair  —  they  are  all  out  of  doors 
—  and  he  is,  as  usual,  lounging  at  her  feet. 

"  Why,  yes!  He  seems  in  excellent  health,"  replies 
ahe  indifferently. 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  his  health,"  says  Bruno,  some- 
what indignantly.  "  What  I  mean  is  that  he's  quite 
gone  in  that  quarter." 

He  nods  lightly  to  where  Dolores  is  standing,  the  center 
of  a  small  group. 

"Gone?"  repeats  Mrs.  Wemyss,  innocently.  "Dear 
me,  no  —  he  isn't  over  there  at  all!  He  is  standing  quite 
close  to  Audrey,  on  this  side.  See?" 

"  How  you  amuse  yourself!  "  says  Bruno,  with  a  slight 
shrug  and  an  amused  glance.  "  What  I  want  you  to  hear 
me  say,  then,  is  that  Dick  is  in  leve." 

"Ah!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Wemyss,  raising  her  brows. 
"  You  should  break  your  news  uiore  gently.  In  love? 
With  whom?" 

"Miss  Lome,  if  you  will  have  me  say  it.  And  she,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  is  quite  as  empressee  about  him.  There 
is  nothing  to  choose  between  them;  she  is  quite  as  much 
in  it  as  he  is.  Don't  you  think  they  will  make  a  charm- 
ing pair?" 

"  Dear  me!  Who  would  have  believed  them  so  silly?" 
murmurs  Mrs.  Wemyss,  in  an  accent  replete  with  heart- 
felt regret. 

"  Eh?"  says  Bruno,  who  up  to  thyi  has  been  almost  ea- 


104  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

thusiastic  in  his  speech.  He  raises  himself  upon  his 
elbow  and  gazes  at  her  earnestly. 

"So  foolish  of  them!"  exclaims  Mrs.  "Wemyss,  biting 
her  red  lip  with  considerable  force.  "But  it  was  to  be 
expected.  It  is  of  course  the  way  they  would  go.  No- 
body has  a  grain  of  sense  nowadays  except  myself  and 
you!  There— that's  polite  of  me,  if  you  like!  Have  some 
strawberries?  " 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  says  Bruno,  stiffly,  refusing 
to  be  mollified  even  by  the  sweet  smile  she  sends  straight 
into  his  eyes.  •"  Who  is  foolish,  and  why?" 

"  Your  brother  and  that  lovely  child.  Why,  you  have 
just  been  telling  me  all  about  it! "  returns  she,  with  an 
assumption  of  reproach. 

"  1  said  nothing  of  folly,  certainly;  I  only  said  they 
loved  each  other." 

"  Bien,  and  how  could  you  possibly  have  said  it  more 
distinctly?"  A  little  rippling  laugh  breaks  from  her  as 
she  presses  a  strawberry  into  a  mouth  that  is  scarcely  less 
red  than  it. 

"Love,  then,  you  deem  folly?  "asks  the  young  man 
half  angrily. 

"  The  very  height  of  it — don't  " — with  a  soft  coquet- 
tish glance — "  don't  you?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  says  Bruno,  indignantly;  after  which  he 
gathers  himself  up  from  her  feet,  and  saunters  moodily 
away  in  the  direction  of  nobody. 

This  proceeding  carries  him  into  the  gardens  beyond; 
but  it  does  not  keep  him  there.  It  just  gives  him  time  to 
concentrate  within  his  brain  the  fact  that  the  most  ex- 
quisite flowers  are  altogether  inferior  to  the  society  of  Mrs. 
Wemyss;  after  the  imbibing  of  which  knowledge,  like  a 
very  sensible  young  man,  he  returns  once  more  to  civilized 
life.  Once  more,  too,  he  approaches  Mrs.  Wemyss  with  a 
face  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  sinks  into  his  old  seat  beside 
her. 

"The  garden  is  pretty,  isn't  it?"  says  she,  with  light 
enthusiasm.  "I  knew  you  would  like  it.  I  don't  wonder 
you  stayed  there  so  long!"  It  is  precisely  five  minutes 
and  a  half  since  he  left  her. 

"  Was  I  cross?"  whispers  Bruno,  contritely.  "  I'm  a 
bear,  I  know,  because  you  have  so  often  told  me  so.  But 
you  see  you  upset  all  one's  preconceived  ideas  so  utterly 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

that  yon  upset  one's  temper,  too.  I  had  been  for  so  long 
dwelling  upon  the  thought  that  there  really  was  something 
out  of  the  common  sweet  about  Dick's  love  for  Dolores 
that,  when  you  crushed  the  sweetness,  I  was  startled — no 
more." 

Mrs.  Wemyss  changes  color  for  an  instant;  then  she  is 
herself  again. 

"Ah!  And  so  that  was  it?"  she  says,  gayly,  with  a 
quick  glance  at  him  from  under  her  rather  roguish  lids. 

"Every  bit  of  it." 

"  What  a  temper  you  must  have,  then,  to  get  into  such  a 
Tage  over  another  man's  business!  Now,  if  I  had  said 
anything  that  touched  yourself  at  any  point,  or  concerned 
you  in  any  way — " 

"I  should  not,  of  course,  have  lost  my  temper,"  fin- 
ishes Bruno,  returning  her  gaze  steadily  for  a  full  minute 
— only  a  minute,  however,  then  his  eyes  go  down  before 
hers.  He  sighs.  "You  do  with  me  what  you  will,"  he 
says,  in  a  low  tone,  reluctantly,  and  forthwith  returns  to 
his  allegiance  and  the  hem  of  her  gown. 

"Miss  Drummond,  do  you  remember  Mrs.  White?" 
says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  leaning  forward.  "  Old  lady  who  took 
the  Cottage  last  Novemoer,  and  had  more  teeth  than 
Nature  ever  provided." 

"  I  remember,"  answer?  Miss  Drummond  slowly. 

"  She  married  more  people  than  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury!  She  was  a  most  determined  old  match- 
maker. She  married  two  of  my  best  friends  to  the  wrong 
people  when  my  back  was  turned;  so  I'm  not  likely  to 
forgive  her." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  match-making,"  says  Miss  Maturin 
suddenly.  "  It's  a  mistaken  calling,  and  results  in  little 
good.  I  don't  believe  any  one  ever  made  a  good  match, 
as  they  call  it." 

"Oh,  there  you  are  wrong!"  puts  in  Mr.  Vyner  mildly. 
"Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  Bryant  and  May!" 

"  Tut!"  says  Miss  Maturin;  but  she  laughs  unrestrain- 
edly with  that  pretty  low  laugh  of  hers  that  even  up  to 
this  has  kept  its  youth;  and  somehow  the  sound  of  her 
mirth  puts  venom  to  flight  more  than  all  the  enforced 
conversation  that  could  be. 

Miss  Drummond,  as  though  it  is  not  congenial  to  her, 
rises  and  wanderg  awuj  to  where  tae  children  are  playing 


106  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

with  the  kingcups  and  the  daisies;  little  mites,  too  young 
to  know  what  life  means,  and  happier  in  their  ignorance 
than  they  will  ever  be  again.  "  There  are  two  of  "  dad's  " 
lery  young  hoys  amongst  them,  and  a  little  boy  from  the 
Parsonage,  and  the  doctor's  fairy  of  a  daughter. 

"  Mrs.  Wemyss,  is  a  cigarette  a  crime?"  asks  Mr.  Vy- 
ner. 

"Not  here,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  smiling.  "For  my- 
self, I  like  the  perfume  of  tobacco." 

"  Ha,  smoke!"  cries  Mrs.  Drummond,  who  had  drawn 
near.  "But  don't  mind  me,  my  dear,"  to  her  hostess. 
"  Of  course  young  men  will  be  young  men,  and  I  dare 
say  there  are  worse  things  than  a  pipe." 

"A  few,"  says  Bruno,  "not  that  I  see  a  pipe  any- 
where." 

"  Look  at  my  Georgina,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  in  a 
perfect  overflow  of  motherly  love;  "  always  happiest  when 
with  the  little  ones!  Shows  such  a  thorough  sweetness  of 
disposition,  such  a  hankering  after  that  divine  simplicity 
that  belongs  alone  to  childhood!  But,  in  truth,  my 
G-eorgiana  is  at  heart  but  a  child  herself." 

Silence  follows  upon  this  maternal  rhapsody,  a  silence 
that  is  but  the  veil  to  cloak  the  reprehensible  tendency 
toward  laughter  that  is  consuming  all  her  hearers. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Anthony?"  asks  Mrs. 
Wemyss  suddenly,  to  whom  Mr.  Vyner  is  an  old  friend. 
"  You  are  silent!  Tell  us  of  your  thoughts."  She  says 
this  merely  to  destroy  the  fear  that  the  real  nature  of  her 
own  silence  may  be  guessed. 

"  They  were  deep,"  says  Mr.  Vyner  solemnly.  "  They 
had  much  to  do  with  a  big  bee  booming  busily  by.  For- 
give the  alliteration." 

"  I  lore  alliteration,"  remarks  Mrs.  Wemyss,  calmly, 
whilst  the  others  smile;  "don't  you?" — to  Mrs.  Drum- 
oiond. 

"  A — a  what,  my  dear?"  asks  Mrs.  Drummond,  vacant- 
ly, which  upset  all  decorum. 

There  is  one  terrible  moment  during  which  Mrs.  Wem- 
yss feels  that  her  afternoon  is  going  to  be  a  failure,  and 
that  presently  Mrs.  Drummond  will  be  seen  retiring  from 
their  midst  offended  past  all  hope.  Then  Bruno,  seeing 
the  agony  in  her  eyes,  comes  to  the  rescue,  and  makes 
«ome  Tittle  passing  remark,  at  which  they  may  laugh  if 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  10? 

they  will,  and  at  which   they  do,  immoderately,  to  Mrs. 
Drummond's  undisguised  amazement. 

"  How  quiet  you  are,  Dolores!"  says  Mrs.  Wemysg 
caressingly,  glancing  at  Miss  Lome  as  she  lies  back  a 
little  languidly  in  her  wicker  chair,  a  thoughtful  happy 
smile  upon  her  lips. 

She  has  indeed  been  lost  in  an  unconscious  silence  full 
of  a  nameless  charm;  but  now,  hearing  herself  thus  called 
back  into  life,  she  learns  for  the  first  time  that  she  is 
silent,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  musings  comes  to  an  end. 
She  colors  faintly,  and  casts  a  half-shy  glance  at  Bou- 
verie,  who  is  leaning  over  her  chair. 

"  I  was  day-dreaming,"  she  answers  nervously.  "  What 
a  sunset  it  is,  with  its  crimson  glows  and  the  orange  tinge 
of  the  clouds!  What  a  lovely  neighborhood  to  live  in!" 

"  Like  Auburn,  it  is  '  the  loveliest  village  of  the 
plain,'  "  says  Vyner;  and  it  is  remarkable  that  there  is  no 
trace  of  cynicism  in  his  tone  as  he  speaks  to  her. 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed!"  she  responds,  as  though  very 
pleased,  and  smiles  upon  him.  Her  large  eyes  are  full  of 
sweet  enthusiasm,  her  pretty  hair,  shining  like  threads  of 
gold,  is  blown  hither  and  thither  by  che  soft  summer 
wind.  She  looks  like  some  soft  spirit  from  another  world 
blown  into  this. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is!'*  says  Audrey,  suddenly,  look- 
ing impulsively  at  Vyner. 

"Very  beautiful!" 

"  What  a  pure  little  face!  She  is  the  dearest  little  baby 
of  a  thing — quite  the  angel  type!  I  am  sure,  if  she  lived 
for  a  thousand  years,  the  breath  of  scandal  could  not 
come  nigh  her." 

"  That  is  a  remark  that  should  be  applicable  to  all 
women,  shouldn't  it?  To  you,  as  well  as  to  her?"  says 
Vyner,  lazily;  but  something  in  his  tone  jars  upon  her. 

"  Some  people  get  things  said  of  them,  even  though 
they  may  not  deserve  it  a  bit  more  than  those  others  of 
the  angelic  style,"  she  returns,  quickly.  "  It  is  unfair; 
but  it  is  so  all  the  same." 

"  'By  some  people'  meaning  yourself,"  says  he,  flick- 
ing off  the  ash  of  his  cigarette. 

''Never  mind  me!"  returns  she  icily.  "We  were  talk- 
ing of  Miss  Lome." 

"  Still  I  do  mind  you,"  says  Vyuer — "the  more  so  in 


108  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

that  you  are —    By  the  bye,  do  you  know  you  are  IOOK 
ing  very  well  to-day?" 

"Does  that  mean  I  was  looking  very  ugly  yesterday ?" 

"I  don't  think  so — because  I  didn't  happen  to  see  you 
yesterday.  But  to  return  then  to  Miss  Lome.  So  she 
interests  you?" 

"  No.  Nobody  does  that.  I  admire  her;  that  is  all. 
I  don't  find  I  ever  have  much  to  say  to  her;  but,  as  I  told 
you  before,  she  looks  like  an  angel." 

"Ah,  you  find  her  slowl"  says  Mr.  Vyner,  an  almost 
imperceptible  smile  widening  his  lips. 

"  I  certainly  don't  find  her  fast,"  replies  she,  with  a 
quick  frown.  Then  she  rises  to  her  feet.  "  I  never  talk 
to  you,"  she  says,  with  sudden  repulsion,  "that  I  don't 
feel  the  full  hideousness  of  my  life!" 

She  stares  down  at  him  with  angry,  glowing  eyes;  but 
he  seems  impervious  to  her  wrath. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  he  says,  as  evenly  and  in  as  friendly  a 
tone  as  if  the  flashing  eyes  above  him  had  been  as  soft  as 
violets.  "  I  have  no  one  to  talk  to  but  you.  Don't  for- 
sake me!" 

There  is  no  unwonted  eagerness  in  the  manner  of  his 
request,  and  she  still  stands  looking  down  upon  him  as  he 
tranquilly  smokes  his  cigarette,  with  a  heart  that  throbs 
with  unpleasant  force. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  about  the  old  boy,"  begins  Mr. 
Vyner.  Then  he  stops  short,  and  a  flush  overspreads  his 
countenance.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  says,  really 
horror-stricken  at  his  mistake.  "  I  meant  your  father — 
«dad!'" 

"  Call  him  that  first  name,  if  you  will.  I  like  it,"  says 
Miss  Ponsonby,  eagerly.  All  her  hauteur  has  vanished, 
and  a  sudden  warm,  lovely  smile  changes  her  cold, 
haughty  face  into  a  vivid  beauty.  "  It  makes  me  feel  he 
is  still  young;  that  there  is  no  fear  I  shall  ever  lose  him," 
she  says,  tenderly. 

For  a  moment  Vyner  makes  her  no  reply.  He  is  watch- 
ing the  curious,  soft  light  within  her  eyes,  and,  perhaps, 
marveling  at  it;  but,  even  as  he  watches  it,  the  fresh 
light  fades,  and  the  first  look  of  resentment  returns. 

"  You  shall  speak  to  me  of  dad  another  time;  I  am 
not  in  the  humor  now,"  she  sa^s,  coldly,  and  moves  away 
from  him  to  where  Doloreg  is  sittiue.  calm  an.l  sweet. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEABT.  101 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Druminond  is  talking  confidentially  to 
her  friend,  Mrs.  Dovedale,  on  a  matter  that  has  been 
much  troubling  her  of  late — namely,  the  questionable 
propriety  of  her  having  purposely  omitted  to  send  Audrey 
a  card  for  her  ball,  that  is  to  take  place  to-rnorrow 
evening. 

"  Of  course,  now  the  Duchess  has  taken  her  into  such 
high  favor,  it  makes  things  awkward,"  she  says  to  Mrs. 
Dovedale,  with  quite  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  "I  wish, 
after  all,  I  had  invited  her,  though  her  aunt,  Lady 
Bouverie,  certainly  detests  her.  Do  you  think,  dear, 
that  if  I  were  to  ask  her  now,  even  at  this  last  moment — 
giving  a  proper  excuse,  of  course — she  would  come?  Give 
me  your  candid  opinion  now,  my  love,  because,  to  confess 
the  truth  to  you,  I  am  uneasy  about  it.  Not  that  I  liise 
the  girl;  only — " 

"No,  no;  she  is  too  attractive  to  be  liked,"  murmurs 
little  Mrs.  Dovedale,  in  her  childish  treble.  "  Yes,  ask 
her.  If  you  do,  you  can,  at  least,  always  say  she  refused, 
you  know,  and  that  it  was  not  jealousy  that  induced  you 
to  exclude  her." 

"Jealousy!  I  am  not  jealous  of  her!"  exclaims  Mrs. 
Drummond,  reddening  uncomfortably. 

"  No?  I  thought  perhaps  Georgina —  But  of  course — 
Well,  ask  her,  I  say.  Her  refusal  can  do  you  no  harm." 

"  But  will  she  refuse?"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  indig- 
nantly. "  I  don't  believe  it.  She  will  be  only  too  glad 
to  escape  the  monotony  of  her  life  for  a  bit.  She  is — er 
— er — very  poor,  you  know;  and  people  like  that  should 
not  give  themselves  airs." 

Mrs.  Dovedale  laughs  prettily. 

"  But  rich  people  may,  Js  that  it?"  she  asks.  "  Long 
ago  we — that  is,  my  people — used  to  think  that  only  those 
who  had  grandfathers — generations,  tiresomely  long  gene- 
alogies, you  know — could  dare  to  hold  up  their  headu. 
Now  it  is  all  different — all  the  other  way  round,  isn't  it?" 
she  laughs  again.  "  But  about  Miss  Ponsonby,"  she  says. 
"  Why,  do  ask  her;  it  will  do  her  no  harm,  you  see,  and 
you — no  good.  How  pretty  she  looks  to-day — and  how 
completely  she  has  enslaved  Sir  Chicksy!" 

"  She  is  artful  in  the  extreme;  but  I  suppose  I  had 
better  ask  her,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  reluctantly,  mov' 
ing  away  to  where  Audrey  is  sitting,  to  Mrs.  Dovedale'i 


110  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

discomfiture,  who,  for  some  reason  or  reasons  unknown, 
would  gladly  have  left  Miss  Ponsonby  without  even  thii 
late  invitation. 

"  Dear  Miss  Ponsonby,"  says  Mrs.  Drurnmond,  flutter- 
Jng  up  to  Audrey  with  a  simpering  smile  upon  her  inex- 
pressive countenance,  and  what,  in  a  wild  flight  of  fancy, 
she  believes  to  be  a  genial  manner,  "so  glad  to  find  you 
alone  for  a  moment!"  She  hovers  round  her  for  a  minute, 
with  all  sails  spread,  and  then  sinks  into  the  seat  beside 
her. 

"  I  am  generally  alone,"  returns  Audrey,  coldly;  then — 
"  Do  you  think  you  could  manage  to  keep  a  little  more 
to  the  left?  Ah,  thanks!  Your  umbrella  is  of  such  an 
abnormal  size,  and  I  do  so  hate  having  my  bonnet  disar« 
ranged." 

"  I  have  so  wanted  a  word  with  you,"  answered  Mrs. 
Drummond,  effusively.  "  That  absurd  mistake  about 
your  invitation  for  to-morrow  night — our  dance,  you  know. 
I  can't  think  how  it  occurred." 

"  No?"  questions  Audrey,  turning  clear  cold  eyes  upon 
her.  "  But  where  was  the  mistake?" 

"Why,  not  sending  you  a  card,  my  dear!  It  was  quite 
an  oversight — quite!  May  I  hope  you  will  forgive  it,  and 
give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company  all  the  same?" 

"  You  are  really  too  good!"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  slowly, 
after  a  distressingly  long  pause  that  brings  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond's  face  to  the  color  of  a  peony.  "  And  pray  do  not 
distress  yourself  about  the  mistake — there  was  none.  Had 
you  sent  me  that  card  you  speak  of  it  would  have  been  a 
betise  indeed;  but,  as  it  is —  Would  you  try  to  keep 
your  parasol  a  little  more  that  way?  As  it  is  I  find  it 
quite  impossible  to  accept  your  kind  invitation." 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Ponsonby — " 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  give  me  the  trouble  of  refusing 
you  twice,"  says  Audrey  haughtily,  turning  from  her 
with  the  gesture  of  an  offended  queen,  and  with  all  the 
air  of  one  who  is  undoubtedly  speaking  to  some  one  of 
rery  inferior  quality.  Mrs.  Drummond,  more  crushed 
than  she  cares  to  admit,  rises  precipitately,  and  carries 
herself  and  her  parasol  to  a  distant  part  of  the  grounds. 
Mr  Vyner,  who  has  watched  the  whole  maneuver  from 
afar,  slips  into  her  vacant  chair,  and  laughs  aloud. 

"  I  hope  you  weren't  too  sev«r«,"  he  says.     "  Wh*i 


DICK'S    SWEETHEA.BT.  Ill 

ronld  she  have  said,  poor  fat  soul,  to  bring  down  thow 
wrathful  glances  on  her  head?" 

"  The  insolence  of  her!"  says  Miss  Ponsonby  betwee* 
her  teeth. 

"  Yes.  She  was  inviting  you  to-day  to  her  ball  to-mor- 
row night— eh?" 

"You  seem  to  know  everything.  Perhaps  too  yon 
know  my  answer?" 

"I  can  guess  it — 'No.' ' 

"  For  once  you  are  right." 

"For  twice,  you  mean;  though  I  mnst  confess  Mrs. 
Dovedale  helped  me  to  my  first  guess.  You  won't  go?" 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  enter  her  aristocratic  circle.  I 
can  actually — so  poor  is  my  spirit — manage  to  live  out- 
side it." 

"  Little  girls  shouldn't  be  sarcastic." 

"  However,  there  is  one  thing,"  says  Audrey,  turning 
to  him  with  a  bitter  smile — "my  going  or  staying  will 
cause  no  one  pain  or  pleasure.  To  me  all  the  world  is  in- 
different. I  have  no  friends;  therefore  there  is  a  virtue 
in  my  unpopularity.  My  absence  to-morrow  night  will 
make  no  one  unhappy." 

"  Truel  There  is'good  to  be  found  in  everything,"  re- 
plies he  sententionsly. 

Perhaps  she  had  expected  a  different  answer  from  so 
old  a  friend.  At  all  events,  for  an  instant  his  wordi 
throw  a  deeper  shadow  on  her  face — only  for  an  instant; 
then  it  clears,  and  she  laughs  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
amusement. 

"  Why,  look  you,"  she  says,  "  you  are  the  only  one  that 
does  me  real  good!  From  you  one  gets  the  truth,  how- 
ever unpalatable;  you  are  a  tonic  in  yourself.  I  should 
always  have  you  near  me  to  say  sharp  things  to  me,  to 
help  me  to  keep  my  balance,  and*  not  lose  my  head  over 
the  world's  injustice.  There  are  times,  you  see,  when  I 
am  discontented,  peevish,  and  '  sick  with  hating  the  sweet 
sun.' ' 

"Whose  son?"  asks  Mr.  Vyner,  calm,  judicial  inquiry 
in  his  eyes.  He  even  leans  anxiously  toward  her,  as 
though  athirst  for  information.  His  frivolity  enrages  her. 

"  There — go!"  she  says,  in  a  low  tone  full  of  passionate 
»nger. 

It  is  a  tone  he  dares  not_diaobey.     He  saunters  slowly 


Hi*  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

away  from  her  and  is  soon  lost  amidst  a  group  at  the 
other  side  of  the  lawn. 

"How  I  hate  him!'  says  Audrey,  very  softly,  letting 
one  hand  grow  clinched  beneath  the  folds  of  her  gown, 
where  no  one  can  see  it,  and  biting  her  pale  lips  to  bring 
them  back  their  color. 
t  

CHAPTER   XL 

A  FEW  drops  of  rain  begin  to  fall  placidly.  First  in 
o^ies,  and  then  in  twos  and  threes  they  come,  until  the 
pattering  drops  grow  too  rapid  for  counting. 

"  Dolores,  where  is  your  shawl?  You  are  not  suffici- 
ently covered,"  cries  Miss  Maturin,  anxiously,  who  seems 
never  for  one  moment  to  forget  the  welfare  of  her 
darling. 

**  Yes — better  come  indoors,"  says  Bouverie,  bending 
tenderly  over  Miss  Lome. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  on  the  veranda,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss 
pleasantly,  "until  this  summer  shower  be  over.  Come. 
Miss  Maturin,  we  will  lead  the  way;  and  perhaps  the 
servants  will  be  good  natured  enough  to  give  us  our  tea  at 
last.  Ah,  Sir  Chicksy,  useful  always!  I'm  sure  I  don't 
gee  how  we  could  ever  get  on  without  you!" 

The  youthful  baronet  bestows  upon  her  a  grateful  glance, 
and  continues  his  occupation  of  gathering  up  all  the  loose 
wraps  forgotten  by  eager  owners  rushing  toward  the  wel- 
come shelter  of  the  veranda.  Now,  reaching  that  happy 
goal  himself,  he  marches  up  and  down  amongst  the  other 
guests  with  his  hands  clasped  beneath  his  coat-tails.  This 
is  a  favorite  attitude  of  his,  which  makes  him  look  like 
nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  a  superannuated  jack- 
daw. Every  one  is  having  tea  and  cake,  or  wine  and 
fruit,  or  something,  and  Sir  Chicksy  is  hopping  about 
amongst  them  in  great  contentment  of  spirit.  For  is  not 
she  here — his  queen,  his  "  ladye"?  By  such  high-sound- 
ing titles  does  he  designate  in  his  own  mind,  his  scornful 
love,  Miss  Ponsonby. 

"Oh,  I  say,  look  here!  Tell  you  the  funniest  thing  I 
•awyesterday — man  in  the  street,  you  know!" 

Here  Sir  Chicksy  pauses  somewhat  vaguely,  whereupon 
everybody  stares  at  him.  Surprise  largely  mingled  with 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  113 

enrioiity  i»  general.  Where  does  the  joke  come  in  ?  That 
is  what  they  all  want  to  know,  but  yet  fail  to  see,  except, 
indeed,  Mr.  Vyner,  who  appears  radiant  with  enthusiastic 
sympathy,  and  full  of  understanding. 

"  By  Jove,  that  was  funny!"  he  says.  "  What  luck  for 
you!  Think  he'll  be  there  again?'* 

"  He  may;  I'm  not  sure.  Wait  a  bit,"  answers  Sir 
Cbicksy,  absently. 

Now  everybody  is  speechless  with  amazement.  Dolores 
looks  concerned,  Miss  Ponsonby  a  little  shade  deeper  in 
color  than  she  was  a  moment  since.  Have  the  poor  little 
man's  brains  failed  him  at  last? 

Mrs.  Wemyss  and  Bruno  are  fast  approaching  that  last 
fatal  stage  when  mirth  will  have  its  way,  when  all  at  once 
Sir  Chicksy's  face  shows  signs  of  intellect,  and  the  fire  of 
a  knowledge  just  grasped,  glows  within  his  beaming  eyes. 

"  I  have  it,"  he  says  triumphantly — "I've  got  it!  I 
.knew  there  was  a  word  for  it  somewhere,  but  it  slipped 
me.  He  was  an  acrobat — my  fellow  in  the  street  was  an 
acrobat,  and  I  never  saw  a  better.  He  chewed  up  every- 
thing he  could  lay  his  hands  on — from  brass  buttons  to 
cabbages!" 

"And  why?"  asks  Mr.  Vyner,  mournfully.  "  Was  he 
so  very  hungry  then,  your  soul?" 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all!"  says  Sir  Chicksy,  in  perfect 
good  faith,  feeling  immensely  pleased  at  the  interest  he 
has  so  evidently  created  in  the  breast  of  Anthony  Vyner. 
"It  was  only  his  tricks,  you  know?" 

"  Naughty  old  man,"  breaks  in  Mrs.  Wemyss,  laughing 
gayly,  "at  his  age  to  be  so  frivolous!  But  perhaps  he 
wasn't  so  old,  after  all.  Was  he  young  and  tender,  Sir 
Chicksy?  Were  his  features  mild  and  mellow?" 

"  They  were — rather  marked,"  confesses  Sir  Chicksy, 
with  some  reluctance — "  especially  his  cheek  and  his  brow; 
he'd  had  small-pox,  I  am  afraid.  And,  as  for  his  nose, 
why,  it  was  tremendous!" 

"  '  Give  me  a  man  with  a  nose/  said  the  Duke  of  Well- 
ington," puts  in  Bruno,  with  encouragement  in  voice  and 
eye. 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  preferred  a  man 
without  one,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  saucily,  which  rather 
destroys  the  effect  of  Bruno's  speech.  "  That's  all  non- 
sense you  know;  even  that  crusty  old  person  couldn't  have 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART, 

been  proof  against  disfigurement  of  that  kind.     Welt 
Sir  Chicksy,  and  what  did  your  man  do?" 

"Everything!"  answers  Sir  Chicksy,  with  growing  ex- 
citement. "But  the  last  thing  beat  all.  He  stood  on 
his  head  and  drank  a  glass  of  beer  without  spilling  a  drop! 
He  did,  I  give  you  my  word." 


eagerly. 

face!    Awfully  funny  now,  wasn't  it?  " 

"Never  heard  of  anything  so  comic  in  all  my  life!" 
says  Vyner.  "  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  drink  a  glass  of  beer 
standing  on  my  head  before  an  admiring  audience — this 
audience,  for  example!" — with  a  loving  smile  at  Miss 
Drummond,  who  goes  down  before  it. 

"So  do  I,"  declares  Sir  Chicksy.  " I'd  give  anything 
to  be  an  acrobat." 

"Especially  on  a  sunny  June  day,"  says  Bruno  dryly, 
"  with  the  thermometer  ninety  in  the  shade,  and  the  dust 
on  the  roadway  two  inches  deep." 

"  That  would  make  it  only  softer  for  one's  poor  head," 
remarks  Vyner,  with  a  calmly  argumentative  air. 

"But,  dear  Sir  Chicksy,  surely  you  would  not  care  to 
go  about  posing  in  the  middle  of  muddy  roads? "in- 
terrogates Mrs.  Dovedale.  "  Think  how  your  friendi 
would  resent  it!" 

"  Of  course  I  couldn't  do  it  in  public,"  says  Sir  Chicksy 
regretfully;  "  but  in  a  drawing-room  now — h'm? — after 
dinner — with  the  curtains  drawn — eh? — just  to  amuse 
one's  friends — d'ye  see? — to  cause  a — a  little  change — eh? 
Some  fellows  can  be  amusing  all  round,"  says  Sir  Chicksy, 
with  a  rueful  air,  "  and  some  fellows  can't,  you  know. 
But  I  think  any  fellow  who  could  stand  on  his  head  with- 
out kicking,  and  drink  his  beer  without  spilling  a  drop, 
might  be  considered  to  be — er — doing  something — er — 
agreeable — eh  ?" 

At  this  all  the  women  break  into  a  peal  of  irresistible 
laughter. 

"Oh,  Sir  Chicksy,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss  at  last,  "why 
need  you  try  to  be  amusing?  You  needn't.  No  acrobat 
that  ever  saw  the  light  could  make  himself  as  amusing  as 
YOU  are  now." 

"  No,  but  really  though,"  goes  on  the  baronet  earnestly, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  lit 

fumbling  vainly  with  his  eye-glass,  which  he  has  foolishly 
brought  into  prominence,  and  now  does  not  know  how  to 
get  rid  of,  "  'twas  very  clever — the  man's  performance  I 
mean — extraordinarily  clever,  I  assure  youl  You'd  have 
been  delighted  with  it." 

"  I  feel  that,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss. 

"  Why  can't  we  all  go  in  a  body  and  learn  how  to  do  it 
at  once?"  asks  Bruno.  "  Where  is  your  conjurer,  Sir 
Chicksy?  If  we  could  only  catch  him,  we  might  buy  his 
ware  from  him." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is,"  says  Sir  Chicksy.  "  He 
went  down  the  street  and  away,  looking  very  desolate,  I 
thought.  Not  a  soul  was  with  him,  and  he  limped  a 
little,  as  though  worn  out.  There  had  been  fifty  or  more 
gaping  at  him  when  he  had  been — er — er — acrobatting, 
you  know;  but  they  vanished  into  thin  air  when  his  jug- 
gling had  come  to  an  end.  The  first  fellow  he  held  out 
his  old  battered  hat  to  was  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  and 
he  stuck  his  hand  in  his  breeches-pocket,  and  stared  and 
gtammered  and  gave — nothing!  And,  I  give  you  my 
word,  whilst  the  acrobat  waited  on  him — it  took  only  one 
minute — all  the  other  forty-nine  disappeared — in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  it  were.  They  were  gone,  I 
couldn't  see  where,  unless  the  earth  had  opened  to  swallow 
'em  up." 

"  Pity  it  didn't!"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  with  a  little 
curious  indrawing  of  her  lips. 

"  I  don't  really  believe  they  gave  him  one  farthing." 

*  Forty  thieves,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  "  to  take  his  good* 
and  give  him  no  payment!" 

"  I  watched  the  whole  scene  from  the  window  at  Ben- 
eon's  seed-shop,"  goes  on  Sir  Chicksy,  "  and  I  thought  to 
myself  how  forlorn  he  looked  trudging  lamely  down  the 
deserted  village  street." 

"  You  shouldn't  have  left  him — that  way,  I  mean,'* 
eays  Audrey  suddenly,  regarding  him  with  a  slight  frown. 
"  You  too  enjoyed  his  performance,  though  from  the 
secrecy  of  a  window." 

"I  had  to  leave  him,"  explains  Sir  Chicksy  hastily,  the 
severity  of  his  goddess'  tone  causing  him  deep  tribulation. 
"  I  had  to  get  you  your  books,  you  know;  and  there  was 
that  message  for  Mr.  Ponsonby  besides.  I  was  uncom- 
mon sorry  to  see  him  go  away  like  that — he  looked  so 


116  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

poverty- stricken,  and  so  horribly  like — er — consumption, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  poor,  poor  man!"  says  Dolores  softly,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears.  All  at  once  it  seems  to  her  that  she 
can  see  the  sweet  drowsy  June  afternoon,  the  tiny  hot  de- 
serted street,  the  drooping  dusty  trees,  and,  at  the  end  of 
il  all,  the  limping  figure  of  the  poor  acrobat  creeping 
wearily  along,  homeless,  friendless,  alone!  Dear  Heaven, 
how  sad  to  feel  like  that — alone! 

Bouverie,  unseen  by  the  others,  lays  his  hand  with  a 
comforting  touch  upon  the  back  of  her  head,  and  smooths 
with  loving  fingers  her  soft  silken  rings  of  hair. 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  have  done  some- 
thing for  him,"  says  Audrey  coldly,  still  transfixing  the 
agonized  baronet  with  a  contemptuous  glance 

"To  help  him  to  another  living?"  asks  Sir  Ohicksy, 
still  quite  at  sea  as  to  her  meaning.  "He  wouldn't  like 
that,  you  know — he'd  hate  it.  He  is  accustomed  to  the 
life  he  now  leads,  and  would  object  to  another.  An 
acrobat  is  an  acrobat,  you  know." 

"  Hear,  hear,"  says  Mr.  Vyner,  with  open  approbation. 

"  And  you  can't  change  a  man's  mode  of  life  all  in  a 
moment,"  goes  on  Sir  Chicksy  earnestly.  "  You  can't 
make  a  tinker  into  an  archbishop  in  five  minutes,  can  you 
now?" 

This  is  another  incontrovertible  fact,  and  no  one  seeks 
to  dispute  it  either. 

"  He  is  getting  so  deep,"  remarks  Mr.  Vyner  to  his 
next  neighbor,  "that  if  some  one  doesn't  give  him  a 
helping  hand  soon,  he'll  drown!" 

"  You  might  have  shown  him  some  sympathy,"  says 
Audrey,  still  addressing  Sir  Chicksy. 

"I  did.  I  don't  think  I  ever  felt  more  sorry  for  any 
one,"  answers  Sir  Chicksy  almost  in  tears. 

"  What  I  mean  is,"  exclaimed  Audrey,  losing  her  pa- 
tience and  therefore  coming  bluntly  to  her  real  meaning, 
"that,  instead  of  feeling  so  much,  you  might  have  given 
him  some  money!" 

"  Why,  of  course  I  gave  him  money!"  says  Sir  Chicks/ 
indignantly.  "  Good  gracious!  he  was  jus't  the  sort  on* 
couldn't  look  at  without  giving  him  money!  I  gave  him 
five  shillings." 

He  blushes  over  this  confession.    At  the  time  of  giving 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  117 

fire  ihillings  had  seemed  quite  enough;  now  he  feels  a 
sovereign  would  have  been  "  quite  too  altogether  shabby." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  say  so?" asks  Audrey,  naturally 
much  incensed,  yet  pleased  too  that  her  suspicions  were 
unfounded. 

"  I  didn't  know  that  that  was  what  you  wanted  me  to 
say,"  replies  he  ingenuously.  "  I  thought  you  would 
have  known." 

At  this  everybody  smiles,  and  Mr.  Vyner,  breaking  off 
a  little  rosebud  from  the  wall  near  him,  throws  it  into 
Audrey's  lap. 

"  It  took  time,  didn't  it?"  he  says  carelessly,  but  with 
a  sparkle  of  suppressed  amusement  in  his  eyes. 

"Even  if  so,  it  was  worth  waiting  for,"  returns  she 
quickly.  Then,  not  angrily,  not  even  unsmilingly,  yet  with 
a  cold  decision,  she  throws  the  rosebud  back  to  him. 

Mr.  Vyner,  catching  it,  sits  down  and  commences  plac- 
idly to  devour  it  leaf  by  leaf,  speaking  no  word  to  any 
one  until  its  last  petal  is  consumed. 

"  Somebody  is  coming,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss  suddenly, 
"I  feel  it.  Somebody  is  in  the  drawing-room.  Look, 
one  of  you,  and  say  who  it  is." 

Bruno,  lifting  the  lace-curtain  of  the  open  window  near 
him,  glances  carelessly  into  the  drawing-room.  Not  so 
careless,  however,  in  his  glance  as  he  once  more  faces  his 
friends. 

"  My  mother!"  he  exclaims,  and  a  general  rout  is  the 
result. 

Consternation  sits  on  every  face;  every  one  at  once  finds 
it  is  very  late,  and  quite  time  to  bid  their  hostess  adieu. 
Mr.  Vyner  alone  rises  gracefully  to  the  occasion  and  his 
feet.  He  welcomes  Lady  Bouverie  amongst  them  with  a 
subdued  effusiveness  that  creates  admiration  in  the  breast 
of  Mrs.  Wemyss,  and  brings  the  word  "  hypocrite"  to 
Audrey's  scornful  lips. 

"No.  Would  you  really  call  me  that?"  asks  he,  with 
grieved  surprise,  overhearing  her.  "Odd,  if  true,  because 
in  reality  I  am  the  most  straightforward  person  alive! 
But  these  little  complications  of  character —  Going  now? 
Well,  I  shall  walk  home  with  you  then,  and  explain  to 
you  my  hypocritical  honesty  and  the  honesty  of  my  hypoc- 
risy as  we  go." 

"  Sir  Chicksy  can  take  care  of  me,"  says  Audrey,  icily. 


118  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  And  §o  can  I,"  Mr.  Vyner  assures  her  cheerfully. 
"  Two  escorts  are  better  than  none.  Can  you  deny  that? 
And,  besides,  Sir  Chicksy — though  quite  the  most  intel- 
ligent and  charming  person  I  know — might,  in  one  of  his 
erudite  reveries — lose  his  way  and  lead  you  into  the  next 
county,  and  then  what  should  1 — I  mean  what  would 
'  dad  'do?" 

He  laughs.  She  turns  impatiently  aside;  but  the  little 
soft  light  that  always  creeps  into  her  eyes  when  "dad's" 
name  is  mentioned,  comes  there  now;  and,  without  mak- 
ing any  further  objection,  she  beckons  to  Sir  Chicksy, 
and,  bidding  Mrs.  Wemyss  good-bye,  goes  down  the 
avenue  escorted  by  the  two  young  men. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  SOMETIME  too  hot  the  eye  of  Heaven  shines,"  but  not 
to-day.  There  is  a  chastened  measure  in  its  strength,  a 
little  tremulous  subduing  of  its  mighty  power  this  after- 
noon which  shows  itself  in  paler  sunbeams  and  in  the 
sighing  of  the  dainty  winds  that  linger  on  lawn  and  wood- 
way.  Up  from  the  sea  they  come,  scented  with  salted 
spray,  laying  cool  touches  upon  all  they  pass,  the  great 
calm  of  the  day  is  rendered  even  calmer  by  them,  so  gentle 
are  they;  the  constant  roar  of  the  waves  is  hushed  to  si- 
lence— peace  lies  on  land  and  water. 

"  The  winds  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kist, 
Whispering  joys  to  the  wild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave." 

The  world  is  a  day  older;  the  sun  is  mounted  high  in 
his  blue  kingdom;  the  roses  are  a  few  hours  nearer  their 
death — happy  death,  coming  with  glow  of  yellow  warmth 
and  rushing  of  sultry  winds! 

With  half  a  mind  to  go  to  the  beach,  Dolores  left  her 
home  an  hour  agone;  but  a  fond  remembrance  of  the 
river  checked  her  desire  for  the  more  noble  sea,  and, 
turning  aside,  she  sought  the  sylvan  shade  of  trees  and 
the  quaint  musical  murmur  of  the  rippling  water,  gliding 
over  rugged  scenes  and  past  soft  bending  mosses. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  119 

Now,  stooping  over  its  brink,  she  notes  her  own  sweet 
image  in  its  quivering  depths,  and  wonders  vaguely  if  it 
is  bearing  it  away  to  the  limitless  ocean  beyond.  The 
limitless  ocean  of  life — what  has  that  in  store  for  her? 
Whither  is  it  hurrying  her?  To  what  unknown  seas, 
what  tempests?  She  draws  her  breath  quickly,  and 
laughs  at  her  own  dismal  imaginings.  Nay,  then,  into 
what  calm  depths  and  pleasant  harbors  is  it  carrying  her, 
with  Dick  for  guide  and  lover  and  guardian? 

Does  the  thought  of  him  bring  him?  His  voice,  far  off 
as  yet,  pierces  the  soft  air  and  comes  to  her,  faintly,  but 
unmistakably.  It  is  the  accent  dearest  to  her  on  earth, 
and  she  turns  gladly  in  its  direction,  and  waits  with  eager 
longing  the  coming  of  its  owner. 

Evidently  he  is  not  alone.  His  voice  is  suggestive  of 
question  and  answer;  it  rises,  fades  away  into  nothing- 
ness, as  if  awaiting  a  reply,  and  then  rises  again.  A  feel- 
ing that  is  scarcely  jealousy,  but  is  perhaps  uncertainty, 
chills  the  smile  upon  Dolores'  lips.  And  now  there  is  no 
fading  away  of  the  voice;  it  holds  its  own,  without  inter- 
ruption, until  it  is  made  plain  to  the  listener  that  Dick 
has  the  conversation  all  to  himself.  It  is  rather  a  mixed 
discourse,  and  has  apparently — from  the  little  she  can 
hear  of  it — a  good  deal  to  do  with  people  of  another  and 
an  airier  clime  than  this.  There  are,  for  example,  allu- 
sions made  to  an  ancient  dame  whose  chief  purpose  in 
life  it  seemed  to  be  to  clear  the  sky  of  superfluous  cob- 
webs, and  to  an  elderly  gentleman — an  elderly  reprobate 
would  be  nearer  the  mark — whose  only  joy  consisted  in 
the  possession  of  "  his  pipe  and  his  glass  and  his  fiddlers 
three." 

Then  all  at  once  the  corner  is  turned,  and  Dick  cornea 
toward  her,  smiling  the  fond  eager  smile  that  belongs  to 
her  alone,  bearing  in  his  arms  a  little  curious  bundle 
pressed  kindly  to  his  breast.  Across  the  dewy  grasses  he 
comes  to  her,  his  unwonted  burden  clinging  closely  to 
him. 

*'*  Why,  it  is  a  little  child!"  cries  Dolores,  going  up  to 
him,  and  turning  a  frightened,  brown,  half-tearful  face 
toward  her  with  a  gentle  palm. 

"Yes,  and  such  a  little  child!"  says  Dick,  laughing. 
*  I  found  her  in  the  very  depths  of  the  woods,  like  an- 
other 'babe,'  lost,  crying  her  poor  little  eyes  out.  And 


120  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

30  wonder  too" — looking  in  friendly  wise  at  the  littli 
mite  he  is  carrying,  who  is  gazing  back  at  him  with  trust- 
ful but  distended  eyes — "  when  we  remember  about  poor 
Eed  Ridinghood,  and  the  wolf  she  met,  and  all  the  pixies 
and  giants  and — " 

"  An'  bogies!"  says  the  child  suddenly,  with  breathless 
awe. 

She  tightens  her  arms  round  his  neck.  There  is  plainly 
a  fearful  joy  to  her  in  this  recounting  of  woodland  hor- 
rors. After  one  swift  glance  at  Dolores,  she  has  turned 
from  her  and  clung  afresh  to  her  preserver.  She  is  a  sin- 
gularly pretty  child,  beautiful  with  all  the  charm  of  un- 
developed youth. 

"Isn't  she  like  a  woodland  elf  herself?"  says  Dick,  ad- 
miringly. 

"And  wasn't  it  well  she  met  you?  Poor  little  thingl 
Where  does  she  live?"  asks  Dolores. 

"  Somewhere  in  the  village,  as  far  as  I  cam  make  out. 
But  my  small  captive  is  exceedingly  vague  in  her  replies. 
Shall  I  take  her  up  to  the  house  and  get  one  of  the  serv- 
ants to  restore  her  to  her  mother — whosoever  she  may 
be?" 

"Yes,  yes;  and  I'll  come  with  you.  Her  mother — oh, 
perhaps  she  is  in  misery  about  her  all  this  time!" 

"  It  is  a  long  walk  there  and  back.  Better  stay  where 
yon  are,  darling,  and  let  me  dispose  of  the  little  one. 
Best  here  upon  the  bank,  and  think  of  me" — laughing — 
"until  I  return  to  you;  I  sha'n't  be  long." 

"Well,  hurry  then!"  she  says  reluctantly;  and,  as  she 
raises  her  face  to  kiss  the  child  in  his  arms,  he  stoops  and 
kisses  her  as  a  brief  farewell. 

She  watches  him  as  he  moves  with  quick  strong  step 
toward  Greylands,  and  then,  seating  herself  upon  the 
mossy  turf,  prepares  to  wait  his  return.  The  day  is  warm, 
seductive,  languorous — wooing  to  slumber;  she  leans  her 
head  upon  the  scented  bank,  and  falls  into  a  profound 
slumber. 

****** 

Bending  over  Dolores,  fearful  of  rousing  her  from  her 
happy  sleep,  Dick  notes  with  a  sudden  sense  of  pain  the 
strange  sweet  delicacy  of  her  face.  One  little  hand  is 
under  her  white  chin,  her  rounded  cheek  is  buried  in  vel- 
Tefcy  mosses;  over  her  head,  trailing  downward  from  the 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  181 

gnarled  old  oak  above  her,  a  fragrant  branch  of  the  "lush 
eglantine"  is  swaying  to  and  fro,  its  rich  scents  strewing 
the  air  and  glowing  soft  into  her  dainty  dreams. 

How  young,  how  sweet,  how  guileless  she  appears — and, 
alas,  how  frail!  How  easily  too  sleep  comes  to  her,  as 
though  it  is  in  truth  a  necessity  to  her,  as  if  the  happy 
spirit,  too  strong  for  the  weak  body,  has  wearied  it  and 
driven  it  into  the  arms  of  slumber,  there  to  regain  its 
strength! 

Kneeling  beside  her,  he  puts  back  with  loving  careful 
fingers  the  little  sunny  rings  of  hair,  wind-tossed,  that 
lie  upon  her  tranquil  brow.  He  would  like  to  take  her 
in  his  arms  and  feel  her  head  against  his  breast,  but  the 
fear  of  wakening  her  is  all  too  strong  within  him. 

How  well  he  remembers  that  first  day  they  met,  when 
his  eyes  had  seen  her  lying  in  her  silken  hammock  with 
the  seal  of  Death's  twin-sister  resting  on  her  as  it  rests 
now!  It  is  but  as  yesterday  when  he  saw  her — tranquil, 
unconscious,  full  of  a  beauty  indescribable  that  savored 
more  of  Heaven  than  earth.  Even  then — how  long  it  now 
seems! — all  his  soul  must  have  gone  out  to  her.  But  how 
quiet  she  is  now — how  pale;  her  breath  scarcely  seems  to 
part  her  lipsl  A  sudden  terror  seizes  him;  he  lays  his 
hand  upon  her  arm. 

Slowly  her  white  lids  updraw  themselves,  and  a  gleam 
from  the  tender  dark  gray  eyes  falls  upon  his  anxious 
face.  First  there  is  a  little  shrinking,  born  of  uncertainty, 
in  her  glance,  and  then  an  unutterable  sweetness,  as  she 
realizes  the  fact  that  it  is  indeed  her  heart's  lover  who  is 
bending  over  her. 

"Ah,  it  is  you!"  she  says,  with  a  little  sigh  of  deepest 
satisfaction,  and,  with  a  movement  full  of  childish  grace 
and  pleasure,  she  lifts  one  arm  and  slips  it  round  his  neck. 
"  I  was  tired  of  waiting.  I  fell  asleep — I  dreamed — " 

"Of  me?" 

"  No — of  something  vague,  shadowy,  unhappy.  I  was 
in  a  darkness,  a  terrible  darkness,  out  of  which  no  one 
could  rescue  me.  I  was  groping  in  a  blind  fashion  where 
there  was  nothing  to  lay  hold  of — no  hope!"  She  shud- 
ders violently.  "  I  was  glad  when  I  woke,"  she  says,  with  a 
quick  sigh  and  an  involuntary  gesture  that  draws  him 
nearer  to  her.  "  You  were  not  there,"  she  murmurs, 
sadlj — "  you  did  not  come  to  help  mel" 


133  DICK'S    SWEETHEART- 

"  Which  shows  how  unstable  are  all  such  vapory  things 
as  dreams.  Where  could  you  be,  my  beloved,  that  I  would 
not  come  to  your  assistance?  Your  griefs,  your  fears  are 
now  all  mine." 

"There  is  one  thing,"  says  Dolores,  raising  herself  on 
her  elbow,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  grave,  sweet  smile, 
"  that  I  have  never  yet  told  you.  It  is  how  much  I  love 
you.  Do  you  know  how  much?  With  my  whole,  whole 
heart." 

"  And  I — how  do  I  love  yon?"  asks  he,  with  passionate 
fondness,  tightening  his  arms  round  her  lissom  figure. 
"Listen!" 

"Jnst  as  I  love  you,"  interrupts  she,  hastily — "not 
less — not  more.  Why  should  one  of  us  outdo  the  other? 
No;  our  love  is  equal  in  its  strength.  I  could  not  be 
dearer  to  you,  Dick,  than  you  are  to  me." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  know  to  what  a  vast  amount  you  are 
pledging  yourself?"  says  he,  smiling. 

"  Yesterday  " — raising  shy,  but  unfaltering  eyes  to  his 
— "I  was  reading  a  love-story,  and  I  was  wondering  if  it 
really  was  so  sweet  to  have  some  one  who — who  loved  one 
better  than  all  the  world  beside.  And  it  was  a  bad  hour 
with  me  as  I  thought  of  all  thi?,  and  I  doubted  it;  but 
now — now — " 

"Yes — now?"  interrogates  Bouverie,  eagerly. 

"Ah,  now  I  know!"  she  says  sweetly,  laying  her  soft 
head,  with  a  little  sigh  of  content,  upon  his  arm. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  remind  me  of?  "says  Dick 
presently.  "  Of  white  violets.  You  are  not  like  a  rose 
or  a  lily,  but  a  frail  pure  violet.  I  don't  know  why  it  is, 
but  you  always  make  me  think  of  that  sweetest  of  flowers." 

"Do  I?"  She  smiles  at  him  as  if  greatly  pleased. 
"Shall  I  wear  violets  in  my  gown  at  Mrs.  Drummond's 
ball  to-night?  Do  you  know  I  really  think  no  flowers 
are  so  nice  as  violets?  I  am  glad  you  think  me  like  them. 
I  ara  wearing  white  as  usual.  Shall  I  put  purple  violets  in 
the  folds?  They  would  not  be  real,  of  course;  but  I  think 
they  would  look  pretty.  Yes?"  She  raises  earnest  eyes 
to  his.  It  is  an  important  question,  this  arrangement  of 
the  coloring  that  is  to  render  her  fair  to-night.  "  Should 
I  look  so  nice?"  she  asks,  with  pretty  anxiety. 

*'  Oh,  love,  how  is  it  you  would  not  look  nice? "  ex- 
claims he;  and  then,  with  sudden  sharp  fear — "Ob, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  123 

darling,  why  do  yon  look  so  pale,  so  fragile?  I  am  afraid 
for  you!  A  terrible  dread  that  some  day  you  will  fade 
away  from  me  altogether  kills  half  the  happiness  youi 
sweet  presence  yields  me." 

"  Nay,"  says  she,  laughing,  and  tenderly  pushing  back 
the  hair  from  his  forehead.  "What  a  silly  boy!  Am  I 
snow,  that  I  should  melt?  And  all  this  is  because  my 
cheeks  are  a  little  pale  to-day.  Well,  I  shall  punish 
them."  She  raises  her  hands  playfully,  and  pinches  her 
cheeks  until  perforce  the  laggard  blood  rushes  into  them. 
"Now  shall  I  fade?"  she  says,  rubbing  her  lovely  flushed 
face  against  his. 

ei  Poor  little  face!"  Struggling  still  with  a  namelesi 
depression,  he  draws  her  closer  to  him.  "  I  shall  not 
allow  you  so  to  ill-use  it." 

She  is  smiling  at  him  now  with  parted  lips  and  happy 
eyes,  and  with  two  soft  crimson  spots  upon  her  cheeks 
brought  there  by  the  unkindly  touch  of  her  slender  fin- 
gers. She  is  sitting  on  the  mossy  bank,  and  has  taken  her 
knees  into  her  embrace,  and  is  bending  toward  him. 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  she  says. 

"  How  can  we?  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  nothing 
in  all  the  world  but  you." 

"  There  you  are  wrong,"  says  she  lightly,  laying  her 
fingers  with  a  quick  fond  gesture  on  his  lips,  "  because 
there  is  you!" 

At  this  they  laugh  with  a  soft  lightness,  not  because  of 
the  excellence  of  their  small  joke,  but  jupt  for  the  very 
love  of  laughter,  they  being  young  and  fond  and  happy 
withal. 

"  Oh,  Dolores!"  says  Dick,  gently,  but  suddenly  taking 
her  face  between  both  his  hands — such  a  beautiful  face, 
constant  and  trustful  as  an  angel's!  The  laughter  has  died 
from  him  now,  and  there  is  an  intensity  of  love  and  pas- 
sion in  his  voice,  and  always  too  that  under-current  of 
fear.  Having  looked  at  her  for  a  long  minute,  he  lifts 
the  hand  that  has  touched  his  lips,  and.  slipping  it  round 
his  neck,  takes  her  into  his  arms  and  draws  her  nearer  to 
him  until  her  head  rests  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You  are  still  unhappy  about  something,"  she  says, 
gently,-  with  all  the  sure  intuition  of  a  sweet  and  sensitive 
soul.  "Is  it  about  me?  You  think  I  shall  die — is  it 
not?  But  it  is  not  death  that  will  come  to  me.  Com- 


134  DICK'S    SWEETHEAET. 

fort  yourself  with  that  thought — if  it  be  comfort.  It 
will  be  something  else  that  will  come.  I  don't  know 
what" — a  little  vaguely — "but  auntie  does.  She  looks 
at  me  so  sadly  when  I  laugh  or  smile.  But  it  will  not  be 
death!" 

A  strange  earnest  look  has  come  into  her  face.  She 
presses  her  lips  to  his  cheek,  and  then  with  a  little  sigh 
sinks  back  into  his  embrace.  It  is  not  a  sorrowful  sigh, 
but  one  full  of  contentment. 

"Why  should  anything  come  to  you  but  happiness?" 
gays  Bouverie.  There  is  a  certainty  in  the  way  she  has 
declared  her  disbelief  in  the  advent  of  death  that  has 
somehow  comforted  him.  Any  evil  minor  to  that  would 
^>e  to  him  as  naught. 

"Why,  indeed?"  returns  she  lightly.  "And  yet — I 
think  it  will  be  so.  But" — with  a  pretty  pretense  of 
anger — "  have  I  not  told  you  to  talk  of  something  tlse — 
anything — but  me." 

"  Of  our  marriage,  then/'  says  Bouverie.  "  Once  you 
nre  really  mine,  what  evil  thing  can  assail  you?  Then 

?»ur  sad  little  forebodings  will  die  of  lack  of  nutriment, 
our  lips  shall  take  again  that  sorrowful  curve  if  they 
dare!    Your  eyes —    What  eyes  you  have,  Dolores!"    He 
turns  up  her  chin  and  gazes  into  the  clear  depths  of  her 
soul's  windows  with  a  wondering  adoration. 

"  '  Beauty  lies 

In  many  eyes, 
But  love  in  yours,  my  Nora  Creina.' " 

He  chants  in  a  low  voice.  "  But  I  forget!"  he  cries, 
presently,  with  an  assumption  of  terror.  "I  must  talk 
of  anything  but  you.  Of  our  marriage,  then,  as  I  said 
before." 

"  Of  our  marriage?"  She  pauses;  the  color  deepens  in 
her  face,  and 

"  From  every  blush  that  kindles  in  her  cheeks, 
Ten  thousand  little  loves  and  graces  spring." 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  says,  softly,  "  I  very  often  think 
how  it  will  be  with  us  then — whether  we  shall  be  very  un- 
happy, or —  I  shall  be  always  thinking  of  you,  of  course, 
and  wondering  how  you  like"  this  and  that  and  the  other 
things  to  be  done,  and  what  you  like  be§t  for  dinner. 


DICK'S    SAVEETHEART.  125 

That's  a  man's  chief  thought,  his  dinner,  isn't  it?  After 
me — that  is,  I  mean,  of  course,  after  the  woman  he  loves?" 

"Is  it?"  questions  Bouverie.  There  is  a  materialism 
about  this  idea  winch  affects  him  disagreeably. 

"Yes,"  says  Dolores,  with  a  little  assuring  noil.  "I 
shall  therefore  watch  you  when  dinner  begins,  and  every 
time  you  refuse  a  dish  I  shall  dismiss  cook — that  is,  if  she 
is  a  mild  woman  and  I  am  not  too  much  afraid  of  her." 

"  You're  sure  to  be  afraid  of  any  cook,  gentle  or  simple," 
declares  Dick,  laughing,  and  thinking  what  a  darling 
little  mistress  of  a  house  she  will  be.  His  house!  "  But, 
as  I  never  yet  looked  coldly  on  my  dinner,  cook's  all 
right!  But  where  shall  we  live,  Dolores?" 

"Ah,  that!"  says  Dolores.  A  trembling  silence  follows 
her  exclamation;  and  then — "I  wan  ted  to  say  it  to  you 
so  many  times,"  she  says,  with  a  quivering  smile;  "  but — 
Dick,  let  us  live  with  auntie!"  She  has  turned  to  him,  an 
eager  pleading  in  her  lovely  eyes.  "  She  would  not  be 
happy  without  me,"  she  says,  in  a  low  whisper. 

"And  you?"  says  Bouverie,  a  momentary  most  natural 
touch  of  jealousy  in  his  tone.  "  Could  you  know  no 
happiness  without  her — even  with  me?" 

He  has  taken  her  hand,  and  is  gazing  at  her  with  a 
gtrange  expression,  not  to  be  misunderstood.  She  turns 
a  little  white,  and  her  breath  comes  in  soft,  fitful  catches, 
but  her  great,  luminous  eyes  do  not  fall  before  his. 

"I  should  know  happiness,"  she  answers,  gently — "a 
happiness  too  deep  for  words — but  not  a  worthy  one.  My 
contentment  would  be  incomplete.  Think  what  auntie 
has  been  to  me  all  my  life — my  mother,  my  friend! 
Should  I  be  the  more  sacred  to  you  if  I  forgot  her  when 
my  heart  was  filled  with  the  joy  of  your  love?  Were  I  to 
forget,  Dick,  were  you  to  counsel  forgetfulness,  would 
that  be  me? — would  that  be  you?  Oh,  Dick,  speak  to 
me!"  She  burst  out  crying. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  said,"  exclaims  Dick,  distract- 
edly, feeling  as  if  each  sob  of  hers  is  an  arrow  dividing 
his  body  and  soul;  "I  only  know  I  meant  nothing  that 
should  distress  you.  Dolores,  my  own  life,  we  shall  live 
with  auntie — with  any  one — even  with  my  mother,  if  you 
wish  it." 

This  last  awful  proposition  proves  as  potent  as  a  magic 
philter,  and  instantly,  reatores  Miss^Lorne  to  calm. 


126  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Xot  that!"  she  exclaims,  nervously.  "But,  Dick- 
dear  Dick — are  you  sure  you  will  not  object  to  have 
auntie  as  one  of  your  household?  She  is  my  mother — let 
her  be  yours,  too." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  agrees  Dick,  genially;  "  though 
how  I'm  to  reconcile  it  to  my  conscience  I  don't  know! 
Two  mothers!  AVhy,  see  what  an  unconscionable  lot  of 
trouble  it  is  giving!  You  make  me  feel  quite  ashamed  of 
myself;  but,  if  you  will  have  it  so —  Now,  are  your  eyea 
dry,  you  little  baby?" 

"  Yes — yes!"  says  Dolores,  smiling  softly.  "  It  was 
silly  of  me  to  doubt  you,  was  it  not?  But  I  was  just  a 
little  afraid  of  you  at  first;  and — " 

"Afraid,"  interrupts  Bouverie — "and  of  me!  Darling, 
let  us  have  that  perfect  love  between  us  that  casteth  out 
fear;  let  us  be  of  one  mind,  and" — stoutly — "let  that 
mind  be  yours." 

This  arrangement  is  so  eminently  satisfactory,  that  no 
further  argument  ensues  upon  it. 

Upon  these  two  beside  the  river  an  exquisite  silence 
falls — a  silence  too  fraught  with  unspoken  thought  to  be 
oppressive — and  with  thought  so  sweet!  A  tiny  squirrel 
in  the  old  oak-tree  above  them,  springing  from  branch  to 
branch,  pauses  abruptly  over  their  heads,  and,  gaining 
courage  from  the  utter  stillness  that  encompasses  them, 
sniffs  daintily  at  the  pretty  picture  they  present — the  soft 
head  of  the  girl  lying  so  happily  upon  her  lover's  breast — => 
the  lover's  glad  content — the  white  robe,  the  parted  lips, 
the  little  jeweled  hands — and,  close  to  it  all,  the  soft  but 
cruel  hurry  of  the  river  rushing  ever  onward  to  the  ocean 
— ther^  is  no  lingering,  no  kindly  hesitation  about  it, 
only  a  wild,  if  subdued,  hurry  to  its  goal — to  the  end  of 
all  things. 

Dolores,  marking  the  deadly  monotony  of  its  haste, 
shivers  slightly  in  her  lover's  arms.  Do  all  things  hurry 
so?  Is  there  no  gracious  delay — no  tender  dallying? 
Are  life  and  death  but  so  many  quivering  eddies  that 
mark,  yet  fail  to  check,  the  vast  on-rush  of  Fate?  And 
what  is  Fate  bringing  to  her?  Life,  is  it,  or  death,  or 
joy,  perchance,  or  perchance — 

Ah,  what  a  word  to  ring  in  her  ears!  And  yet  how 
loudly  it  peals  through  mead  and  woodland!  Shame — 
shame!  What  can  it  have,  to  do  with  her?  Yet  "ShameP 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  lt» 

is  the  sound  that  echoes  from  sloping  hill  upon  her  right 
to  placid  moorland  down  below. 

She  flings  the  echo  from  her;  she  laughs  inwardly,  and 
nestles  a  little  closer  to  Bouverie,  as  though  her  shield 
were  here.  Across  the  scented  grasses  a  sweet  wind  is 
blown — a  music  weird  and  mystical  ascends  from  the 
bosom  of  the  impatient  river.  Deep  in  the  wood  the 
sounds  of  cooing  pigeons  may  be  heard. 

"The  summer  leaves  hungower  our  head*, 

The  flow'rs  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 
The  throssil  whistled  sweet." 

By  an  effort  she  rouses  herself  from  the  reverie  into 
which  they  both  have  fallen. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking,  0  recreant  sweetheart," 
she  murmurs,  gayly,  withdrawing  herself  from  his  em- 
brace and  turning  his  chin  by  a  loving  touch  in  her  own 
direction,  "  that  no  word  has  escaped  you  all  the  long, 
long  time?" 

"  Why,  of  my  lady-love,  be  sure!" 

"And  she — who  may  she  be?" 

"One  Mistress  Dolores  Lome,  by  your  grace,  madam, 
an'  if  it  please  you." 

"  By  my  halidame,  sir,  anj  it  does  please  me!  An* — 
Oh,  Dick,  how  nice  you  look  with  that  stern  courtier-like 
air  upon  yon!  But  would  you  " — she  hesitates — the  ad- 
miration so  lately  assumed  dies  altogether  from  her  eyes, 
and  a  certain  fear  takes  its  place — "  would  you  ever  look 
at  me  like  that?"  she  asks,  nervously,  quite  forgetful  of 
her  momentary  appreciation. 

"  Am  I  not  looking  at  you  now?" 

"  Oh,  no — not  at  me!  You  imagined  me  some  one  else, 
i§  it  not?  But  it  came  to  me  that,  if  in  the  years  to  come 
you  were  ever  to  regard  me  like  that,  I  should — " 

"What,  beloved?" 

"  Die  perhaps  " — laughing;  then — "  tell  me,"  she  says, 
leaning  toward  him — "  are  you  ever  really  stern  like  thabP 
Are  you  " — leaning  even  closer — "  ever  like — your  moth- 

CJT  4 

"  How  can  I  be  sure?"  returns  he,  slowly.  "  She  is  my 
mother.  Why  should  I  then  positively  declare  that  there 
is  no  likeness  between  ns?  And  ;yet — " 


128  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Yes?"  she  says  hopefully  and  breathlessly. 
"I  know  that  I  can  love,  whilst  she —  Do  you  thin* 
I  would  chance  anything  with  you,  Dolores?  Whatever 
demon  1  may  have  inherited,  it  is  not  so  strong  as  the 
angel  that  has  come  to  me  since  first  my  eyes  fell  on  you. 
I  could  not  risk  anything  with  you.  I  could  not  forget 
the  greatness  of  the  gift  you  have  given  me — your  own 
sweet  self.  I  dare  say  I've  got  a  bad  temper.  My  moth- 
er " — with  a  little  bitter  laugh — "reminds  me  of  it  often 
enough  to  make  me  sure  of  it.  But  tell  me  " — gazing 
anxiously  into  her  luminous  eyes — "  that  you  know  I 
should  never  be  anything  but  gentle  with  you." 
"Yes;  I  know  it." 

She  rises  slowly  to  her  feet  and  stretches  out  her  arms 
with  a  soft  languishing  gesture  toward  the  setting  gun. 
Then  all  at  once  she  laughs,  and,  turning  to  him,  lays 
both  her  small  palms  against  his,  and  gives  him  a  loving 
but  vehement  little  push. 

"  And  this  is  how  I  know  it,"  she  says,  with  the  mos^ 
charming  assumption  of  sauciness.  "  It  is  because  you 
wouldn't  dare  to  be  otherwise — so  now!" 

She  shakes  her  dainty  head  at  him — her  pretty  head 
with  all  its  soft,  riotous  rings  of  hair  that  tremble  like  gold 
in  the  dying  sunshine.  Her  parted  lips  are  full  of  laugh- 
ter, "  her  eyes  are  as  eyes  of  a  dove." 

"  I  must  go,"  she  says,  suddenly,  lightly  unfastening 
the  chains  that  bind  her. 

"  Not  yet.     Why,  it  is  quite  early." 
"  Nevertheless  my  last  hour  has  come.     I  have  prom- 
ised Audrey  to  give  her  her  tea  this  afternoon,  and  it  is 
now  half -past  four.     At  five  I  am  due.     Give  me  my 
hat." 

"  Give  me  some  tea,  too."  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  eagerly. 
"I  never  felt  so  thirsty  in  all"  my  life!  I'll  come  home 
with  you  and  help  you  to  pour  it  out.  That  will  be  doing 
you  some  good." 

"  No.     Audrey  doesn't  care  for  you,  and  you  don't  care 
for  Audrey.     I  can't  bear  conflicting  elements." 
"  I  won't  say  a  word  that — " 

"  Good-bye,"  says  Miss  Lome,  with  decision.  "  I  have 
Been  quite  enough  of  you  for  one  day,  considering  I  am 
:x>utul  to  meet  you  again  to-night.  Till  then,  adieu/ 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Yet  stay;  as  far  as  the  first  turn  in  the  avenue  counts, 
you  may  come  with  me,  but  not  a  step  beyond." 

"  And  all  this  is  because  of  Audrey!  *  Oh,  my  cousin, 
shallow-hearted,'  how  I  detest  you!  But  for  you  I  should 
be  allowed  to  enter  Paradise!" 

"Goto!  Your  wits  wander!"  says  Miss  Lome.  "And, 
if  you  won't  come  with  me  to  that  first  turn,  why,  good- 
bye then  until  to-night." 

"  "  Oh,  I'm  coming,"  cries  Bouverie — "  to  the  hall-door, 
if  I  may!  There  is  no  false  pride  about  me.  And  about 
to-night?  You  will  not  be  later  than  ten?  You  will  give 
me  the  first  dance?" 

"  If  you  are  in  time  for  it." 

"  Don"t  comfort  yourself  with  the  thought  that  I  *ha'n't 
be.  If,  on  your  arrival,  you  hear  of  any  burglar  being 
secured  in  the  coal-cellar  for  prowling  about  the  premises 
during  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening,  remember  it  is  I, 
*  being  in  time." 

"  You  sha'n't  stay  there  long  after  my  arrival,"  says 
Miss  Lome,  fondly.  "  With  my  own  hands  I  shall  release 
you,  be  there  a  thousand  Drummonds  in  the  way."  She 
slips  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  squeezes  it  confi- 
dentially. "Do  you  ever  think,  Dick,  how  strange  a 
thing  it  would  have  been  if  we  had  never  met  and  loved?" 

"A  terrible  thing!" 

"  Should  we  have  met  and  loved  some  other  people — 
odious  people! — or  should  we  have  gone  to  our  graves 
unwed?" 

"  Unwed,"  says  Dick, with  conviction.  "  How  one  event 
changes  one's  whole  life!  I  suppose  if  my  uncle  had  not 
fallen  over  that  precipice  somewhere  in  Switzerland,  you 
and  I  would  now  have  been  as  apart  as  though  two  differ- 
ent spheres  held  us." 

"He  was  killed?"  asked  Dolores,  with  some  awed  in- 
terest. 

"  Yes.  We  were  poor  people  at  the  time  it  occurred;  and 
his  death  made  such  a  tremendous  difference — gave  rny 
father  the  title,  property,  and  all!  I  remember  my  uncle 
slightly — a  quiet  man  like  my  father,  very  timid,  very 
silent,  and  in  great  awe  of  my  grand-uncle,  from  whom 
the  money  came,  as  well  as  the  title." 

"  Why  was  he  afraid  of  him?"  asked  Dolores,  some 
vague  contempt  in  her  tone. 


130  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  Because  the  property  was  not  entailed  all  through— 
and  an  empty  title  is  a  barren  honor.  However,  the  old 
man  died  shortly  after  the  accident  that  killed  my  uncle, 
and  left  all  to  my  father.  I  think  at  the  time  it  happenti 
I  was  sorry  about  that  accident;  but  I  am  not  sorry 
now.  If  it  had  not  occurred,  you  and  I — how  impossible 
it  sounds! — would  be  strangers  to  each  other." 

"Poor  man!  It  was  sad  though!"  says  Dolores,  with 
a  sigh.  "Now  here  is  our  boundary-line,"  she  adds, 
standing  at  the  curve  of  the  avenue  and  holding  out  to 
him  a  dismissing  hand.  "Not  a  word — not  an  entreaty! 
Your  doom  is  sealed!" 

"  Well,  yon  needn't  stand  so  far  away  from  me,"  says 
Dick,  aggrieved.  "There  isn't  anybody  looking,  and 
therefore  nobody  can  see.  Say  good-bye  to  me  in  a  more 
dutiful  way  than  that." 

"You  are  sure — sure" — glancing  round  nervously — 
"that  there  is  no —  Oh,  Dick — there!  Indeed  you 
should  be  more  cautious!  And —  Good-bye  again!" 

There  are  several  "agains,"and  then  she  runs  away 
from  him  down  the  long  avenue,  and  is  soon  hidden  from 
him  by  the  jealous  laurestines. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DOLORES  has  barely  time,  after  parting  with  Dick,  to 
tnrow  off  her  hat,  make  herself  a  degree  prettier  than  she 
was  even  a  moment  since,  and  enter  the  library  by  the 
upper  door,  when  a  servant,  throwing  open  the  lower  one, 
announces  Miss  Ponsonby. 

"  Ah,  I  am  so  glad  I  was  home  in  time!"  says  Dolores, 
ingenuously,  running  to  her  and  kissing  her  warmly.  Be- 
tween the  little  heiress  who  has  never  known  a  grief  or 
felt  a  cynical  thought,  and  the  cold,  self-contained  girl 
always  so  bitterly  resentful  of  the  poverty  to  which  she 
was  born,  a  strange  friendship  has  arisen.  "I  was  so 
afraid  I  should  be  late,  I  have  only  just  come  in  myself. 
Take  off  your  hat." 

"  You  were  walking?" 

"Yes,  with —  Yes."  She  blushes  faintly,  and  busies 
herself  drawing  forward  a  low  lounging-chair  for  her 
risitor's  comfort. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  131 

*'  With  Dick,"  says  Audrey,  calmly.  "  Well,  he  is  more 
fortunate  than  most." 

"Because  I  walked  with  him?"  laughs  Dolores,  light- 
ly, raising  her  brows. 

"That,  too.  But  I  was  not  thinking  so  much  of  this 
hour's  grace  accorded  him  as  of  the  fact  that  probably  you 
will  let  him  walk  through  life  beside  you.  Now  that  is  a 
speech  that  requires  no  answer.  If  I  am  right,  so  much 
the  better  for  him.  If  I  am  wrong,  why,  then  I  can  al- 
most find  it  in  my  heart  to  pity  him,  though  his  race  are 
not  altogether  dear  to  me!  What  a  perfect  day  it  has 
been!  What  an  evening  it  is!" 

"Why  should  we  waste  it  indoors?"  said  Dolores, 
gayly.  "  The  orchard  is  a  happier  hunting-ground  than 
this  can  be.  There  may  be  some  strawberries  still  left, 
and  I'll  tell  them  to  send  us  out  some  extra  cream  for 
them  with  our  tea;  but  perhaps" — with  a  hesitating 
glance  at  the  cool  room  she  has  spoken  of  abandoning. 

"  No,"  answers  Audrey;  "you  need  not  be  afraid  of 
that.  What  room — even  the  loveliest — can  bear  compar- 
ison with  the  summer  air?  '  Stone  walls,'  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  always  '  a  prison  make.' " 

"Auntie  has  gone  to  the  town;  so  we  shall  be  all 
alone,"  says  Dolores. 

Slowly  sauntering  toward  the  orchard  they  enter  it  pres- 
ently through  its  ivied  gateway  and  fling  themselves,  with 
a  glad  sense  of  youth  and  freedom,  upon  a  mossy  bank 
beneath  a  gnarled  old  apple-tree. 

"  How  cool  it  is  here — how  quiet — no  noise!"  said 
Audrey,  clasping  her  arms  behind  her  head  and  gazing 
upward  at  the  liquid  blue  of  the  evening  sky. 

"No  boys!"  returns  Dolores,  laughing. 

"It  means  quite  the  same  thing." 

*'  Sometimes — just  at  first,  when  I  knew  you — I  used 
to  think,  whenever  you  spoke  of  the  boys,  that  you  meant 
your  brothers." 

"No;  my  mother  spared  me  that  infliction  at  least — 

" '  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house 
And  all  the  brothers  too.' 

I  suppose  I  should  speak  of  them  as  *  the  pupils;'  but 
somehow  *  the  boys '  comes  more  naturally.  What  a  tor- 
ment they  are — what  a  grinding  horror!  And  yet"— » 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

with  some  remorse — "  it  is  a  shame  to  be  so  hard  on  them. 
Sometimes — even  to  them — I  confess  I  am  grateful  to 
them.  They  mean  so  much  to  as  in  many  ways.  Where 
would  dad  be  without  his  books,  for  instance?  The  fact 
is,  dad  and  I  are  carnivorous  animals,  and  live  on  the 
boys." 

"  Still,  young  boys  I  dare  say  are — " 

"Young!"  For  an  instant  Miss  Ponsonby  glances  at 
her,  and  then  she  laughs  faintly.  "They  aren't  always 
ao  very  young,"  she  says.  "I  would  they  were;  they 
would  be  just  half  the  trouble  then.  It  is  big  boys  that 
worry.  We  have  them  at  seventeen,  twenty,  twenty-one, 
and  so  on.  Once  we  had  one  at  twenty-seven.  He  was 
the  dullest  boy  of  the  lot — so  dull  indeed,  that  I  don't 
think  he  will  ever  be  anything  else.  Perpetual  youth  is 
his  lovely  portion." 

"  What  became  of  him?"  asks  Dolores,  who  has  been 
secretly  wondering  if  she  means  Sir  Chicksy,  but  is  at 
last  comforted  by  the  reflection  that  certainly  twenty- 
seven  summers  have  not  passed  over  that  gentleman's 
flaxen  head. 

"  We  kept  him  only  four  months,  as,  beyond  laying  his 
exceedingly  large  hand  and  small  fortune  at  my  feet  every 
second  day  and  eating  unlimited  jam-tarts,  he  did  literally 
nothing." 

"  How  tiresome!" 

"  It  wasn't — not  exactly.  He  did  both  things  so  thor- 
oughly, and  always  at  full  length  under  the  big  acacia, 
that  he  ceased  to  trouble  us  after  a  bit.  I  almost  missed 
him  and  his  proposals  when  he  went.  Perhaps  I  missed 
the  tarts  even  more!  He  was  most  generous  in  his  distri- 
bution of  them." 

"  Do  all  the  boys  propose  to  yon?"  asks  Dolores,  who  is 
much  "fetched  "  by  this  idea,  and  is  regarding  Miss  Pon- 
sonby with  an  irrepressible  smile. 

"  Pretty  nearly,"  says  Audrey,  with  imperturbable 
gravity;  then,  all  in  one  moment,  she  gives  way  to  a 
merry  burst  of  laughter  very  unusual  to  her.  "  You  see, 
dad  has  the  reputatfon  of  being  so  clever,  and  indeed  is  so 
clever,"  she  says,  with  loving  pride,  "that  they  send  him 
all  the  forlorn  cases  as  a  last  resource;  and  sometimes  he 
does  manage  to  push  them  through  in  spite  of  Dame 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  188 

Nature.  But  why  they  must  all  arrange  to  believe  them- 
selves in  love  with  me  is  the  amusing  part  of  it." 

"  It  sounds  amusing  certainly.  Just  fancy  a  youthful 
regiment  on  its  knees  to  one  all  day  long!" 

"Sometimes  it  is  unpleasant,"  confesses  Audrey,  with 
a  change  of  feature — "sometimes" — looking  earnestly  at 
Dolores  and  speaking  in  a  low  tone — "  they  weep,  and 
that's  hateful!  I've  known  them  get  so  damp  and  so 
limp  that,  after  indignantly  refusing  them,  I  have  had  to 
support  them  back  to  the  house;  and  then,  when  they 
used  to  sit  through  dinner  without  eating  a  morsel  and 
with  their  eyes  and  noses  as  red  as  fire,  dad  used  to  ask 
me  what  it  all  meant,  and,  when  he  found  out,  he  would 
be  very  angry  and  want  to  send  the  luckless  boy  away;  and 
of  course  that  was  awkward,  you  know,  as — as — well,  of 
course  you  understand" — a  little  impatiently — "  that  the 
money  the  poor  boy  paid  was  of  great  importance  to  us." 

"  Of  course,"  says  Dolores,  with  the  simplest,  most 
business-like  tone  in  the  world.  It  soothes  the  other  and 
drives  the  little  frown  from  her  brow. 

"  Whatever  you  do,"  she  goes  on,  smiling  again  at 
Dolores,  "  don't  encourage  a  lover  who  looks  even  inclined 
to  cry;  it  will  imbitter  your  life.  But  I  forget;  my  advice 
is  not  wanted  here.  I  don't  believe  Dick  could  cry  even 
if  he  tried." 

"You  should  know,  being  his  cousin,"  says  Dolores, 
coloring  sweetly  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  as  she 
always  does,  but  looking  in  no  wise  embarrassed.  "  But 
what  an  irrelevant  remark  of  yours!  What's  Hecuba  to 
me  or  I  to  Hecuba?" 

"  You  alone  can  answer  that  question."  Audrey  is 
silent  for  an  insignificant  time,  and  then,  reverting  to  her 
first  topic,  "  There  is  one  thing  redeeming,"  she  says, 
"about  the  boys — they  all  love  dad!  Even  when  they  go 
away  they  don't  forget  him.  But  that" — with  a  swift 
brightening  of  her  rather  oold  and  haughty  face — "  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at." 

"No,"  returns  Dolores,  with  a  subtle  touch  of  sym- 
pathy— "I  have  seen  him." 

"  Does  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  exclaims  Audrey,  grow- 
ing suddenly  animated,  "  how  he  can  be  Lady  Bouverie's 
brother?  What  faint«»t  connecting  link  is  there  between 


134  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

them?  She  so  insolent,  so  overbearing,  he  so  tender, 
go — "  Her  voice  falls,  and  a  beautiful  dreamy  expression 
comes  into  her  eyes. 

"Your  Cousin  Dick  was  telling  me  to-day  of  how  Lady 
Bouverie  once  was  quite  poor,"  says  Dolores. 

"  Yes;  I  expect  the  sudden  unexpected  rise  to  a  title 
and  a  decent  rent  roll  was  too  much  for  her.  She  hasn't 
recovered  from  it  yet,  you  see.  That  word  'lady'  is  an 
everlasting  delight  to  her.  I  can  fancy  how  openly  glad 
she  was  when  that  poor  man  fell  over  that  cliff,  or  what- 
ever it  was.  I  remember  him  myself  but  very  slightly — I 
was  only  a  child  then,  a  mere  baby — an  aimless,  helpless 
sort  of  man,  just  like  Sir  George,  and  very  good-natured. 
I  think  for  the  one  week  I  knew  him  I  lived  on  lollipops. 
Papa  always  speaks  very  kindly  of  him,  but  then  he 
speaks  kindly  of  his  sister  Lady  Bouverie  too;  so  that 
his  word  doesn't  go  for  much.  Yet  I  don't  wish  you  to 
think  that,"  she  says,  smiling,  "  because  I  would  have 
you  believe  that  the  pretty  things  he  says  of  you  he  really 
does  mean,  and  that  he  likes  you  more  than  most." 

"It  is  only  fair  that  he  should  like  his  daughter's 
friend,"  replied  Dolores,  feeling  strangely  attracted  to  her 
because  of  this  great  love  for  her  father  which  is  betray- 
ing itself  in  every  word  and  glance. 

"There  is  one  thing  that  gives  me  deep  pleasure — one 
thought  rather,"  goes  on  Audrey,  turning  her  face  slowly 
until  her  eyes  rest  on  Dolores.  "  If  you  should  chance  to 
marry  Dick  dad  will  be  your  uncle." 

"And  vou  my  cousin."  Dolores,  coloring  warmly, 
holds  out  her  hand  to  her,  and  then  all  at  once  a  grim 
little  look  of  comic  dismay  desolates  her  face.  "  And 
Lady  Bouverie  my  mother-in-law!"  she  adds  slowly. 

"It  does  take  the  gilt  off — doesn't  it?"  says  Audrey, 
laughing.  Then,  after  a  moment's  silence — "  '  How  happy 
some  o'er  other  some  can  be!'  I  wonder  if  Dick  knows 
how  lucky  he  is?  It  will  be  the  happiest  thing  for  him!" 

"  Why  should  it  not  be  the  happiest  thing  for  me,  too?  " 
asks  Dolores,  gently.  "  We  have  not  spoken  of  our  en- 
gagement yet  to  any  one,  except  to  auntie,  and  now  to 
you;  but,  of  course,  all  the  world  has  seen  how  it  is  with 
us.  And  I  am  glad  they  have  seen  " — with  a  little  sud- 
den quickening  of  the  breath,  and  a  sudden  paling  of  her 
lovely  face.  "  Why  should  one  seek  to  hide  one's  joy? 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  135 

Yet  actually  to  speak  of  it,  to  put  it  all  into  words,  that 
is  difficult." 

"  My  aunt — does  she  know?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  told  Dick  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  his 
mother  for  yet  a  little  while;  but  I  suppose  she  has  made 
a  good  guess  at  it.  She — she  has  been  very— one  doesn't 
know  what  to  call  it,"  says  Dolores,  laughing — "  very 
affectionate  to  me  of  late.  At  least  that  is  what  I  am 
gure  she  has  meant  to  be." 

"  Very! "  says  Audrey,  dryly. 

"  If  I  were  to  become  a  Cinderella  to-morrow,  I  wonder 
how  it  would  be  with  her  then?" 

"You  would  be  'Miss  Lome*  then,  not  her  'pretty 
Dolores,'  and  when  she  met  you  it  is  amazing  what  an 
amount  of  eyeglass  she  would  require  to  be  able  to  see 
you,  and  her  tone,  when  she  hoped  you  were  quite  well, 
would  be  sufficient  to  make  you  quite  ill,  and  her  hurried 
but  frozen  adieu  would  bring  you  to  death's  door;  and 
besides — " 

"  The  picture  is  complete!  "  interrupts  Dolores,  laugh- 
ing. "  Your  style  is  decidedly  graphic.  Let  us  rejoice 
in  the  fact  that  I  shall  never  be  called  upon  to  enact  the 
r6le  of  a  modern  Cinderella  Oh,  by  the  bye,  Audrey, 
I  am  so  sorry  you  will  not  let  us  call  for  you  to-night! 
But  you  were  right  yesterday.  In  your  place  I  should 
have  rejected  Mrs.  Drummond's  invitation  just  as  you  did." 

"  Every  one  detests  me  so,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  frown- 
ing, and  plucking  a  daisy  to  pieces.  "  Yet  what  have  I 
done  to  any  of  them?" 

"  You  are  so  much  prettier  than  they  are!" 

"  Yet  so  are  you;  and  they  all  profess — nay,  they  all 
io  like  you.  There  must  be  something  morally  wrong 
with  me;  yet  how  to  change  when  my  fault  is  unknown 
to  me?  Perhaps  I  should  be  more  meek,  perhaps  I  should 
have  accepted  Mrs.  Drummond's  words  in  a  different 
spirit,  though  they  were  spoken  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and 
only  because  the  Duchess  thought  me  worth  a  word  or 
two  and  an  invitation  to  the  Castle." 

"Mrs.  Drummond  made  a  mistake;  I  think  you  were 
right  in  showing  it  to  her,"  replies  Dolores,  quietly.  "  Ig 
Sir  Chicksy  going?" 

"About  him  I  have  been  more  worried  than  I  can  tell 
you.  He  declares  nothing  will  iuduce  him  to  go;  and, 


136  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

absurd  as  he  looks,  he  is  really  very  difficult  to  manage  in 
small  affairs  of  this  kind." 

"  His  not  going  will  look  rather  marked." 

"That  is  what  I  told  him,  but  he  seemed  to  think  that 
reason  for  his  going  only  an  extra  inducement  to  stay  at 
home."  Miss  Ponsonby laughs  a  short  joyless  laugh,  and 
gives  the  soft  frill  round  her  neck  a  vicious  little  pull. 

"  He  is  very  much  in  love  with  you,"  says  Dolores, 
gravely;  "and  sometimes  I  do  not  understand  whether 
that  pleases  or  annoys  you.  He  is  a  kindly  young  man, 
I  know — he — he  has  many — " 

"  Don't  say  good  qualities,"  interrupts  Audrey,  calmly. 
"That  would  be  the  finishing  stroke  to  whatever  chance 
he  may  have." 

"Chance!  Tell  me" — looking  earnestly  at  her — "do 
you  mean  to  marry  him?" 

"  Well,  why  should  I  not?  He  is  an  excellent  parti," 
says  Audrey,  defiantly;  "  and  he  has  no  father,  or  mother, 
or  sister,  or  brother  to  consult,  or  to  be  furious  with  him 
for  marrying  a  girl  without  a  penny.  About  family  there 
is  no  question,"  she  says,  with  a  proud  gesture — "on 
either  side." 

"You  think  of  marrying  him,  then?"  interrogated 
Dolores,  a  little  carefully  suppressed  surprise,  a  little 
well-bred  regret,  in  her  tone.  She  blushes  up  to  her  very 
brow  as  she  asks  the  question,  and  looks  abashed  at  her 
own  temerity.  When,  a  moment  since,  she  has  asked  the 
same  question  in  the  different  words,  she  had  expected 
the  answer  to  be  a  straightforward  "  No,"  and  had  found  no 
difficulty  in  propounding  it.  But  now,  as  the  immense 
truth  dawns  upon  her  that  in  reality  Audrey  may  bring 
herself  to  wed  Sir  Chicksy,  she  feels  strange  toward  her, 
and  a  little  upset  as  to  her  former  calculations.  She  hes- 
itates; but,  as  no  reply  comes  from  Audrey,  something 
within  her — something  pure  and  true — compels  her  at  all 
hazards  to,  conquer  cowardice,  or  fear  of  giving  offense 
Raising  her  lowered  eyes  she  says  impulsively,  "  He  is  noj 
good  enough  for  you." 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  good  enough  for  him,  or  any  othei 
man?"  returns  Audrey,  with  quick  bitterness.  "Do  yo^i 
think  I  care  whether  he  be  good  or  bad?  I  tell  you" — 
leaning  toward  her,  and  pushing  her  dark  hair  in  an  im- 
patient manner  from  her  forehead — "  I  only  cared  to  know 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  137 

whether  his  rent-roll  was  really  what  he  said  it  was;  that 
I  have  ascertained  to  be  the  truth,  and  so  no  hesitation  is 
left  to  me.  I  am  mercenary;  I  love  money;  I  would,  I 
believe,  sell  my  soul  to  be  rich  and  great  in  the  world's 
eyes." 

"How  can  you  so  deliberately  lie  about  yourself  ?"  says 
Dolores,  calmly,  though  the  other's  suppressed  excitement 
has  its  influence  upon  her. 

"There — you  see  I  have  shocked  you!  Good  little  girls 
like  you,"  exclaims  Audrey,  with  a  reckless  laugh,  "  who 
have  never  known  what  poverty  means,  or  the  scorn  society 
amasses  to  pour  broadcast  upon  those  who  lack  this  world's 
goods,  can'not  understand  such  natures  as  mine.  Yet  it 
is  the  very  society  of  which  you  are  a  member  that  forms 
such  natures.  I  think  I  hate  rich  people!"  She  pauses, 
and  then  a  revulsion  of  feeling  comes  to  her,  and  she  goes 
on  again  quite  calmly.  "  You  think  Sir  Chicksy  is  not 
good  enough  for  me;  but  you  won't  to-morrow,  when  you 
dwell  on  the  knowledge  of  me  that  I  have  given  you;  and, 
besides — besides,  he  can  give  dad  his  books — the  claret  I 
can  not  give  him — the  South  of  France — life!"  Her  voice 
fails  her;  yet,  though  she  is  as  pale  as  death,  and  her  eyes 
are  heavy  with  miserable  tears,  she  looks  straight  at 
Dolores  frowuingly,  as  though  forbidding  her  to  offer  any 
sympathy. 

But  Dolores  is  not  to  be  forbidden!  Audrey  has  put 
out  her  hand  as  though  to  bar  any  approach,  yet  Dolores 
creeps  up  to  the  antagonistic  hand,  which  is  in  truth  but 
a  very  frail  barricade,  and  slips  her  arm  round  Audrey's 
neck. 

"  I  always  thought  I  liked  you  the  best  of  my  many 
friends  here,"  she  whispers,  softly.  "  Now  I  know  it; 
but,  oh,  dear,  dear  Audrey,  why  need  you  make  this  sacri- 
fice? Other  people  are  rich;  other  people  love  you!" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no!"  cries  Audrey,  paling,  and  shrinking 
from  her. 

"  There  is  one,"  says  Dolores,  in  a  quick,  hurried  tone, 
tightening  her  clasp — "  one  to  whom  you  are  unkind,  to 
whom  you  show  yourself  in  all  your  most  unlovable  moods. 
And,  as  for  him — I  can  not  always  understand  him  in- 
deed; but  this  I  know  that  you  are  well  beloved  by — " 

With  a  passionate  exclamation,  Miss  Ponsonby,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet,  pushes  the  grrj^back  from  her,  and  fron 


138  DICK'S    SWEETHEAET. 

an  assured  distance  gazes  at  her  with  crimson  cheeks  ana 
flashing  eyes. 

"  How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me?"  she  says,  in  a  low 
panting  tone,  scarcely  audible.  "  How  dare  you  take 
aiich  a  liberty?  There  is  no  one  that  loves  me;  it  is  an 
insult — a — " 

She  turns  away  abruptly,  and  walks  in  a  rapid  inconse- 
quent fashion  down  the  garden  path,  increasing  the  dis- 
tance between  herself  and  Dolores  with  all  the  speed  of 
which  she  is  capable.  Her  every  moment  is  full  of  a  sup- 
pressed agitation,  born  of  passionate  fear  and  a  feeling 
she  believes  is  anger,  and  a  vague  horror  of  herself. 

Dolores,  stricken  dumb,  stands  motionless  upon  the 
mossy  sward,  with  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree  swaying 
above  her  head,  and  just  a  glimpse  of  the  eternal  blue  of 
heaven  beyond.  What  has  she  done?  What  was  it  she 
said?  A  pang  of  terrible  self-reproach  shoots  through 
her  tender  heart  as  she  watches  the  tall  haughty  figure 
hurrying  away  from  her  toward  the  garden  gate.  When 
she  has  disappeared  through  the  ivied  portals,  will  she 
ever  return? 

Dolores,  looking  pale  as  a  small  ghost,  clasps  her  hands 
together  and  feels  as  one  might  who  has  just  committed  a 
murder  of  the  most  cold-blooded  description.  She  takes 
a  step  forward  with  the  intention  of  overtaking  and  com- 
pelling that  determined  figure  to  believe  her  innocent  of 
studied  offense,  when  all  at  once  Audrey  pauses,  hesi- 
tates, and  finally,  turning  sharply  round,  comes  back  to 
her. 

"  Forgive  me!"  she  says  abruptly,  her  face  very  white. 
"  I  should  not  have  spoken  so  to  you.  It  was  rude,  and 
besides  that,  absurd.  There  is  no  real  reason  why  you 
should  not  speak  to  me  of  him  as  well  as  of  Sir  Chicksy." 
No  name  has  been  mentioned  between  them  of  this  second 
suitor,  yet  both  seem  to  understand.  "And  I  should 
have  remembered,"  continues  Miss  Ponsonby,  growing 
even  paler,  •"'  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  you  in  any 
case  to  be  the  offender."  Great  tears  rise  now  and  glisten 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Audrey,"  says  Dolores,  going  up  to  her  and  laying 
her  arms  loosely  round  her  neck,  so  that  she  can  lean 
back  and  study  th«  other's  face  as  she  speaks,  "  at  least 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  139 

believe  this  of  me,  that  my  liking  for  you  is  sincere  enough 
to  prevent  my  saying  a  hurtful  word  to  you." 

"  It  is  the  living  of  my  whole  life  in  this  narrow  place 
that  has  spoiled  me,"  murmurs  Audrey,  faintly  smiling. 
"  I  grow  more  morbid,  suspicious — hateful,  if  I  dare  con- 
fess the  truth.  But  only  to  you,  Dolores,  will  I  do  that. 
Just  now  you  were  speaking  of  Anthony  Vyner,  were'iyou 
not?" 

"  Yes.  What  fault  do  you  find  in  him  that  you  should  be 
so  incensed  with  me  for  my  bare  mention  of  his  name?" 

"The  greatest  fault  of  all — his  inability  to  appreciate 
my  many  charms!"  She  laughs  softly  but  bitterly. 
"  Don't  say  they  are  not  many,"  she  goes  on  quickly. 
"Recollect,  the  truth,  if  rude,  is  always  salutary."  She 
smiles  again.  "  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Vyner  detests  me  nearly 
as  much  as  I  detest  him.  There  is  an  antagonism  between 
us  that  T  believe  only  life  can  end." 

"  Speak  of  your  own  repulsion, "returns Dolores,  quiet- 
ly; "that  is,  of  course,  to  you  understood;  but  Mr. 
Vyuer's  feelings  are  not  to  be  so  lightly  canvassed.  I  do 
not  think  you  judge  him  aright.  You  say  I  am  wrong  in 
thinking  he  loves  you;  I  admit  my  error  in  that  respect, 
if  indeed  it  be  one;  but  that  he  hates  you — no,  no!  He 
certainly  does  not  hate  you.  I  think  he  likes  you." 

A  sudden  passionate  color  flames  and  dies  in  Miss  Pon- 
lonby's  cheeks. 

"How  good  that  is  of  him!"  she  says,  in  a  carefully 
modulated  voice.  "  Poor  Anthony!  It  must  be  an  ever- 
lasting trouble  to  him  to  like  me,  considering  how  well 
he  knows  me.  It  is  indeed  too  much.  But  see,  Dolores 
— who  is  that  coming  through  the  arched  gateway?" 

"  Tea,"  declares  Dolores,  in  a  gratefully  explanatory  if 
a  scarcely  grammatical  manner;  "  and  Wylde.  What  have 
you  there,  Wylde?" — addressing  the  gray-haired  butler 
who  is  approaching  them,  followed  by  an  attendant  satel- 
lite. 

"  Small  bottle  of  champagne,  miss;  thought  you'd  like 
it  with  your  strawberries.  Tea  is  only  just  made,  so  it 
can  wait  a  bit." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Wylde!"  says  Dolores,  looking  with 
tender  friendship  at  the  old  man  who  has  followed  her 
fortunes  through  the  half  of  Europe.  "  Do  you  know 
you  have  brought  us  tha  yerv  thing  for  which  Miss  Poth 


140  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

sonby  and  I  hare  been  sighing?  And,  Wylde  "—calling 
after  him  as  he  beats  a  smiling  retreat — "be  sure  you  let 
me  know  when  auntie  returns." 

"  Sure  to,  miss,"  bows  Wylde,  with  a  deferential,  if 
confidential  gesture. 


CHAPTEK  XIV. 

AT  the  stuccoed  mansion  of  the  Drummonds  the  fiddles 
are  sounding,  and  bright  forms  are  making  the  most  of 
the  glad  hour  accorded  them.  Fountains  are  dripping 
musically;  the  air  is  heavy  with  the  breath  of  dying  flow- 
ers; it  is  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  ball  is  at  its  height.  The 
music  grows  sweeter,  softer.  One  begins  to  take  to  heart 
the  languorous,  numerous  meanings  of  the  floating  per- 
fumed fans. 

Down  far  below,  in  the  valley,  a  girl,  tall,  but  spirit- 
broken,  is  standing  in  an  open  window.  She  is  clad  in 
a  wide  clinging  gown,  and  is  gazing  eagerly  with  great 
sad  straining  eyes  at  certain  yellow  lights  that,  two  miles 
away,  can  yet  be  caught  through  the  still  haze  of  the 
summer  night. 

After  all,  was  she  so  wise  in  refusing  that  invitation? 
Dolores  had  said  she  was;  but — Life  is  short!  Why  not 
take  from  it  the  very  meager  enjoyment  it  offers  to  the 
hungry  seeker  after  distraction?  And  yet —  How  chilly 
it  grows!  How  long  it  seems  since  last  she  heard  the 
human  voice  that  some  mistaken  person  once  called 
"divine!" 

There — glancing  at  the  pale  yellow  lights  so  far  away — 
every  one  no  doubt  is  happy,  regardless  of  everything  but 
the  present  moment.  Ah,  happy  present!  What  more 
natural  than  that  they  should  lose  themselves  in  it?  If 
she  were  there,  she  too  doubtless  would  be  cruelly  regard- 
less of  all  the  outer  world.  But  then — 

The  night  is  still,  beyond  all  imaginings.  The  scent 
of  the  tall  white  lilies  outside  burdens  the  air.  "Un- 
pavilioned  heaven  is  fair,"  rich  in  its  countless  stars, 

"And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way." 

Tho  girl  leaning  against  the  shutters  of  the  open  win- 
sighs  a  little,  and  her  beautiful  haughty  face  takes  a 


DI-CK'8    SWEETHEART.  141 

mournful  droop.  Her  lips  curve  downward,  her  eyes 
grow  sad  and  moist;  yet  always  the  yellow  lights  gleam 
in  the  cruel  distance,  and  almost  the  sound  of  the  fiddles 
comes  to  her  on  the  ambient  air.  She  stirs  impatiently 
and  tightens  her  fingers,  as  if  unconsciously,  upon  the 
soft  crimson  rose  with  which  she  has  been  toying.  It 
shrinks  and  dies  beneath  her  pressure,  and  one  drop  of 
moisture,  blood-red  in  her  imagination,  as  though  dis- 
tilled from  its  heart,  crawls  over  and  under  and  through 
her  white  fingers  as  though  in  protestation  against  her 
idle  deed. 

But  to  her  it  is  as  though  the  rose  never  existed.  Her 
eyes  are  ever  fixed  upon  the  lights  so  far  removed  from 
her,  and  a  sense  of  desolation  overpowers  her.  The  tears 
gather  in  her  eyes,  and  blot  out  those  vexing,  shining 
lights — and  blot  out,  too,  the  figure  of  a  man  who, 
advancing  rapidly  through  the  shrubbery,  enters  the 
second  window,  and,  crossing  the  room,  is  at  her  side 
before  she  has  time  to  recognize  him. 

It  is  Anthony  Vyner,  a  little  heated  from  his  run, 
with  his  hair  ruffled  and  quite  a  triumphant  light  in 
his  eyes. 

Audrey,  moving  backward  involuntarily,  seizes  the  cur- 
tain with  one  hand,  and  gazes  at  him  in  speechless 
amazement. 

"You?"  she  whispers,  breathlessly. 

"  Is  it?"  inquires  Mr.  Vyner,  genially.  "  Perhaps  so! 
No  doubt  you'd  know.  I  seldom  understand  myself,  so 
there  can  be  nothing  remarkable  in  the  fact  that  I  don't 
always  know  myself!  I  thought  I  was  at  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond's,  but  if  " — with  a  delicate  deference  to  her  opinion — 
"yon  insist  on  saying  this  is  I,  why  I'll  take  your  word 
for  it!" 

"What  brought  you  here?"  asks  Audrey,  who  has 
grown  very  white  from  the  suddenness  of  the  shock  his 
unexpected  appearance  has  caused  her. 

"  Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  says  Mr.  Vyner, 
airily,  "  I  don't  know.  I  never  go  into  my  own  motives. 
Long,  long  since  I  found  they  weren't  worth  it.  Lovely 
night,  isn't  it?" 

"What  brought  you?"  persists  Audrey,  unflinchingly. 
There  is  a  little  flash  in  her  somber  eyes,  her  hand  tight- 
ens on  the  curtain. 


142  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

..."  If, "  answers  Mr.  Vyner,  plaintively,  "I  now  stated 
Jo  you  an  incontrovertible  fact,  and  told  you  the  simple, 
beautiful  truth,  and  said  it  was  my  ten  toes  and  my  two 
heels,  I  dare  say  you  would  think  me  rude,  eh?" 
,:.-"  You  are  always  rude,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  calmly; 
?'iso  that  goes  for  nothing.  Still,  I  must  ask  you  to 
answer  my  question.  What  brought  you  here  at  this 
hjur?" 

7  "  It  is  impossible  to  be  sure.  But  I  suppose  it  is  what- 
«Ver  brought  me  here  at  any  other  hour." 

J"Will  you  answer  me  or  not?"  demanded  she,  angrily. 
.,.. "  How  can  I?  It  is  so  awfully  hard  to  find  out!  If 
eVen  human  love  be  not  the  growth  of  human  will,  how 
shall  I  know  what  strange  force  drove  me  abroad  to-night 
to  wander  amidst  Cimmerian  darkness  and  meditate 
troon — " 

'" "  Now  that  you  hare  come,  and  refuse  to  give  a  reason 
for  your  coming,  I  must  only  beg  you  will  go  again,"  says 
Audrey,  haughtily. 

,She  drops  the  curtain  and  turns  disdainfully  toward  the 
door;  but,  when  she  is  only  half  way  to  it,  Mr.  Vyner 
springs  to  his  feet  and  hurries  after  her. 

"  Eureka!"  exclaims  he,  with  the  triumphant  air  of 
one  who  has  proved  himself  victorious  over  some  brain- 
worry.  "  I've  found  it!  What  a  fortunate  thing — isn't 
it?" — looking  to  her  for  sympathy.  "And  just  at  the 
List  moment,  too!  Another  hesitation  and  I  should  have 
been — lost;  you  would  have  gone!" 

"  Well,"  says  Audrey,  severely,  standing  a  good  way 
back  from  him  and  gazing  at  him  with  unfriendly  eyes, 
"well?" 

It  is  plain  she  is  not  to  be  done  out  of  the  desired  ex- 
planation. 

"  My  presence  here,  Miss  Ponsonby,"  begins  he,  with 
an  artless  candor,  "at  this  unseemly  hour  was  caused,  I 
have  just  discovered,  by  an  overpowering  desire  to  see — " 

Miss  Ponsonby  frowns. 

"  Wait  a  bitj"  exclaims  he,  hastily.  "To  see — to  see 
anything  that  was  far  away  from  Mrs.  Drnmmond! 
There — you  can  not  object  to  that,  can  you?" 

"  1  don't  object  to  anything,"  says  Audrey,  just  a  little 
wearily. 

She  has  come  back  to  her  window  again,  and  is  now 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  148 

leaning  ont  toward  the  scented  darkness,  as  though  wooing 
a  touch  from  the  cool  night  wind.  Far  down  below,  in 
the  woods  of  Greyland,  the  nightingales  are  singing  their 
wild  sweet  catches,  answering  each  other  from  branch  to 
branch.  It  is  a  heavenly  harmony  that  beats  upon  the 
heart,  and  seeks — as  though  it  were  the  herald  of  peace — 
to  enter  there.  But  sometimes  pulses  throb  too  madly, 
and  sad  hearts  are  too  full  to  admit  any  new-comer,  what- 
ever name  he  bear. 

"  Yes,  I  was  saturated  with  Mrs.  Drummond.  I  thought 
I'd  leave  whilst  yet  there  was  time,"  goes  on  Mr.  Vyner, 
after  a  brief  glance  at  her.  He  too  is  leaning  out  of  the 
window  beside  her,  being  no  doubt  as  smitten  with  the 
beauty  of  the  night  as  she  is.  "  I  felt,  if  I  stayed  a  sec- 
ond later,  that  my  hour  would  be  come.  And,  as  a 
mother-in-law  now,  do  you  think  she  would  be  nice?" 

"  I  never  think  of  her,"  says  Audrey,  her  head  turned 
away  from  him  as  she  gazes  into  the  cool  misty  mysteries 
of  the  summer  night. 

"  I  would  that  I  were  you!"  says  Mr.  Vyner.  "She 
preys  upon  my  brain,  although  " — with  a  sudden  brilliant 
change  of  tone  and  a  benignity  of  countenance — "  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  our  dear  friend  is  a  very  sweet 
creature — such  an  affectionate  disposition,  such  a  flow  of 
goul— eh?" 

"  Did  anything  else  flow  to-night?"  asks  Miss  Ponson- 
by,  turning  upon  him  suddenly,  with  a  suspicion  of  wrath 
in  her  dark  eyes.  "  Have  you  had  too  much  of  their  ex- 
ecrable champagne?  The  idea  would  suggest  itself. 
What  occasions  your  high  spirits?  What  has  induced 
you  to  leave  your  partners  to  come  here?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you?"  returns  Mr.  Vyner,  reproach- 
fully. "  It  was  pure  fright  that  drove  me  from  the  pala- 
tial halls  of  the  people  beyond.  How  their  lamps  shine 
through  the  density  that  parts  us!  Why,  they  put  the 
very  stars  to  shame!  But  what's  the  good  of  being  a, par- 
venu if  yon  can't  outshine  your  neighbors — eh?  Yes,  it 
was  f  right  pur  et  simple  that  bade  me  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 
They  were  all  getting  too  fond  of  me — too  sugary.  By 
the  bye,  perhaps  it  is  the  old  fellow's— the  grandfather's 
—molasses  that  makes  them  all  so  sweet?" 

"  What    an    opinion    you    hare    of     yourself!" 


144  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Audrey,  with  a  curling  lip.    "  Do  you  indeed  think  that 
all  the  world  is  so  anxious  to  marry  you?" 

"Oh,  not  all  the  world!"  He  looks  at  her  fixedly,  and 
she  returns  the  look.  "I  have  the  very  best  reasons  for 
knowing  that  all  the  world  is  not  so  favorably  disposed 
toward  me,"  he  says  presently.  "  Now  you,  for  in- 
stance " — she  moves  away  impatiently,  and  a  faint  expres- 
sion that  is  either  amusement  or  uncertainty  or  annoyance 
crosses  his  face — "you  would  not,  I  know,  deign  to  look 
at  me  were  I  to  lay  my  allegiance  at  your  feet!" 

"  That  is  a  good  thing  for  you  to  know,"  returns  she, 
coldly.  "Perhaps  if  you  came  to  the  same  knowledge 
about  many  other  women  of  your  acquaintance,  you  would 
find  yourself  on  a  safer  level  than  you  are  at  present.  You 
think  Miss  Drummond — " 

"  I  don't  think  that;  I'm  sure  of  it.  When  she  had  for 
the  third  time  done  me  the  honor  to  ask  me  to  be  her 
partner,  I  felt  I  must  run  for  it.  And  then  I  thought 
I'd  come  down  here  and  ask  you  what  she  meant." 

"Even  if  she  did  make  up  her  mind  to  marry  you," 
said  Miss  Ponsonby,  surveying  him  with  leisurely  con- 
tempt, "she  would  be  miles  too  good  for  you." 

"  That's  just  what  I  thought/'  smiles  he,  equably — 
"  so  I  flew.  '  Never,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  shall  I  be  the 
cause  of  bringing  down  misery  upon  the  head  of  this  ad- 
mirable girl.  Were  I  to  be  the  means  of  rendering  her 
unhappy,  I  should  never  forgive  myself.  No;  even  though 
the  determination  cost  me  my  life,  I  will  be  generous  in 
this  matter;  I  will  not  marry  her!  And  then,  as  you 
know,  I  arrived  here  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  upon 
coma.  You  remember  I  couldn't  give  you  so  much  as  a 
decent  answer  to  a  most  simple  question.  Yon  recollect 
that?  I  say,  Audrey,  couldn't  we  find  some  supper  some- 
where? I'm  right  down  hungry;  self-denial  of  the  sort  I 
have  just  described  and  suppressed  affection  and  all  that 
are  very  exhausting,  and — er — very  appetizing." 

"Certainly  not,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby,  with  stern  de- 
cision. "If  you  want  supper  go  back  to  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond." 

"Not  if  I  were  starving!  Do  you  think  I'd  risk  Geor- 
gina's  blandishments  again?  Don't  be  brutal,  Miss  Pon- 
sonby. 'Tis  ill  fighting  with  a  hungry  man.  What  had 
you  for  dinnerF" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  145 

"Roast  beef,"  confesses  she,  reluctantly. 

"  Cold  roast  beef,"  says  he,  meditatively.  "Worcester 
sauce,  fresh  bread  and  butter.  It  might  be  worse — far 
worse!  Come  along " — jovially  tucking  his  arm  bon- 
samarade  fashion  into  hers — "  and  we'll  make  a  night  of 
it!" 

"Come — where?"  demands  she,  making  an  ineffectual 
effort  to  untuck  herself.  Evidently  "dad's"  old  boy  is 
not  to  be  lightly  got  rid  of. 

"Into  the  pantry,  of  course,"  returns  he,  unabashed. 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake,"  says  Miss  Pousonby, 
stubbornly  resolved  not  to  yield  an  inch.  "  Into  the  pantry 
I  don't  go.  Go  back  to  the  Drummonds!" 

"  I  have  told  you  already  why  I  can't.  Would  you 
thrust  me  into  the  arms  of  Georgina?  Is  this  your  vaunt- 
ed affection  forme?" 

"Affection  for  you!"  exclaims  she,  regarding  him  with 
withering  scorn. 

"  You  would  deliberately  fling  me  into  the  prepared 
pitfall.  Was  it  for  this  you  kept  Chaucer  at  home?  I 
dare  say  you  knew  if  he  had  been  there  my  danger  would 
not  only  have  been  lessened,  but  have  been  nil!  A  baro- 
net is  dearer  to  their  souls  than  a  commoner  could  ever 
be.  A  title  counts.  Your  studied  cruelty  is  more  than  I 
ean  bear.  Would  you  have  rne  marry  Georgina?" 

"  I  don't  care  whom  you  marry,"  exclaims  she,  with  a 
passionate  stamp  of  her  little  foot;  "only  go  away!" 

"I  can't,"  says  Mr.  Vyner,  sinking  into  a  chair;  "I'm 
too  far  gone.  The  walk  home  would  be  too  much  for  me. 
Do  you  think  '  dad,'  if  he  knew  it,  would  send  me  hungry 
from  his  door?" 

At  this  she  struggles  wildly  with  a  rising  force  within 
her,  and  at  last  they  both  burst  out  laughing.  It  does 
her  good.  When  the  small  paroxysm  is  over,  she  sighs 
heavily,  aod  looks  at  him. 

"  By  the  bye,  where  is  'dad'?"  asks  he. 

"  In  bed — two  hours  ago." 

"  Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just,  no  doubt;  if  not,  no 
one  ever  did  it.  And  Sir  Chicksy?" 

"  In  bed  too,  I  trust." 

"  So  do  I.  For  once  we  are  agreed.  And  an  excellent 
place  it  is  for  him.  Jj*?J?e  his  dreams  are  rose-colored. 


146  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

I'm  so  fond  of  Chaucer  that  I'd  always  have  him  in  bed, 
if  I  couldn't  have  him  in  Heaven.  Servants  in  bed  also?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  with  a  quick  glance  at  her  pale 
profile,  "  that  you  have  been  keeping  a  lonely  vigil  here 
for  nearly  three  hours?" 

"  I  didn't  find  it  lonely.  Do  you  think" — with  an 
angry  contraction  of  her  brows — "that  I  am  a  child  or  a 
fool,  to  be  terrified  by  the  mere  fact  of  being  alone?" 

"Ah,  true!  I  forgot  that  mind  of  yours — the  amazing 
strength  of  it!  But  even  that,  I  suppose,  can  not  keep 
you  from  feeling  the  pangs  of  hunger  at  times?  Do  say 
you  could  eat  something  now,  if  only  to  please  me!" 

In  truth  the  girl  is  looking  very  wan  and  tired  and  dis- 
heartened, in  spite  of  her  efforts  at  control. 

"  If  I  am  not,  you  are,"  she  says  evasively.  "  Come  to 
the  pantry  then,  since  you  won't  go  back  to  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond.  As  you  say  " — wistfully — "  I  suppose  dad  would 
not  like  you  to  leave  his  house  hungry." 

"I  expect  'dad'  is  my  saving  clause.  You  have  no 
bowels  of  mercy.  Never  mind;  I  forgive  you.  By  the 
way,  why  didn't  Sir  Chicksy  turn  up  at  the  Drummonds? 
to-night?" 

"  Because  I  declined  to  go." 

"  Well  done  himself!  Now  who  says  *  men  ave  dd- 
ceivers  ever — constant  to  one  love  never'?  William 
Shakespeare,  I  despise  you!  Your  supposed  knowledge 
of  human  nature  is  a  big  swindle!  But  stay — I  forget! 
He  never  knew  our  Chicksy — that  perhaps  accounts  for 
it.  I  say,  Audrey,  you've  got  a  new  lock  to  the  pantry 
since  I  was  here!  The  last  ones — at  least,  the  one  I 
knew — used  to  wobble — so!  Remember?  By  the  by3, 
I'm  not  a  bit  surprised,  you  know,  that  Sir  Chicksy  is  so 
head  over  ears  in  love  with  you!" 

"  No?  Neither  am  I,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby  indiffer- 
ently. 

"  Good  girl!"  murmurs  Mr.  Vyner. 

Whereupon  Audrey,  stirred  by  some  secret  emotion, 
foreaks  into  a  low  gay  laugh — a  laugh  very  different  from 
the  mirth  of  a  moment  since,  which  indeed  had  been  half 
vexatious.  She  is  of  those  people  whose  laughter  is  in- 
frequent, and  therefore  her  mirth,  when  heard,  is  more 
infectious  than  that  of  most. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  14? 

•'Dear  me!"  exclaims  Mr.  Vyner,  with  concern,  gazing 
At  her  with  exaggerated  amazement.  "  Are  you  ill?  Has 
anything  hurt  you?" 

"  No;  still  my  laughter  has  done  me  good;  it  has  opened 
my  heart.  To  prove  it,  I  will  confess  that,  if  you  un- 
fasten the  door  of  the  safe  over  there,  you  will  find  not 
only  the  beef  I  spoke  of,  but  a  chicken." 

"  Ye  gods,"  cries  Mr.  Vyner,  "  why  don't  ye  come 
down  from  Olympus?"  He  opens  the  door  of  the  safe. 
"  And  a  very  nice  plump  chicken  too!"  he  remarks  ad- 
miringly. "  After  all,  I'm  rather  glad  the  gods  have  not 
responded  to  my  call.  It  will  be  just  enough  for  you  and 
me." 

Miss  Ponsonby,  with  the  most  astonishing  rapidity,  has 
covered  the  small  table  near  her  with  a  white  cloth.  Not 
the  very  faintest  suspicion  of  mauvaise  honte  is  discernible 
in  her  movements — not  even  the  knowledge  that  ;it  Mr. 
Vyner's  own  home  servants  in  livery  perform  for  him  all 
such  services  as  these  has  the  power  to  render  her  awk- 
ward or  self-conscious.  Anthony  Vyner  was  far  too  many 
years  one  of  "the  boys" — though  during  his  time  she 
was  but  a  tall  slender  impetuous  child,  only  half  conscious 
of  the  existence  of  anything  save  fruits  and  flowers — ever 
to  be  considered  a  stranger  by  her,  no  matter  how  an- 
tagonistic she  may  feel  toward  him  now  that  the  waves  of 
time  have  rolled  a  little  further  on. 

Just  at  this  moment  he  is  on  his  knees  before  a  small 
cupboard,  searching  it  diligently  for  something  that  evi- 
dently is  not  there.  To  even  an  unobservant  looker-on  it 
might  suggest  itself  that  it  is  not  the  first  time  he  and 
she  have  supped  together  in  this  pantry. 

"  You  won't  find  them  there,"  says  Audrey  at  last,  be- 
coming aware,  after  a  prolonged  patting  of  her  cloth  to 
take  out  certain  creases,  that  her  guest  is  still  sprawling 
on  the  floor  in  his  evening-clothes  and  with  his  head  lost 
in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  cupboard.  "  We  always  keep 
the  forks  and  spoons  in  the  big  press  now." 

"Do  you?"  says  Vyner,  scrambling  to  his  feet  once 
more.  "  So  much  the  better;  an  affair  like  this,  with  its 
lower  shelves  almost  on  the  ground,  is  very  trying,  and, 
besides,  it  is  such  a  rickety  old  thing!" 

"  It  is  not  a  bit  more  rickety  now  than  it  was — then," 
declares  Miss  Ponsonby.  injin  offended  tone;  yet  there  i» 


148  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

just  now  a  little  softness  about  her  anger  that  would  nava 
been  foreign  to  her  in  more  orthodox  moments. 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit!" acquiesces  he  cheerfully.  "As 
you  say,  I  defy  it  to  be  more  unstable  now  than  it  was 
then — then!"  repeats  he,  with  a  sigh.  Is  it  a  real  sigh, 
or  only  part  of  his  usual  idle,  careless  manner,  which  is 
never  more  than  half  earnest?  "  What  a  very  dear  little 
girl  you  were,"  he  says,  "in  that  pleasant  far-off  *  then!'" 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  would  say  to  you,"  says  Miss 
Ponsonby,  standing  very  still  and  very  upright  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  with  a  salt-cellar  in  one  hand  and 
a  mustard-pot  in  the  other,  "and  I  would  have  you  re- 
member it  for  all  your  days;  it  is  this:  I  object  to  com- 
pliments in  every  shape  and  form,  whether  they  refer  to 
my  past,  my  present,  or  my  future.  You  will  be  so  good 
as  never  to  forget  that." 

"  I  shall  be  so  good,"  promises  Mr.  Vyner  amicably, 
who  for  his  part  is  armed  with  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  carving- 
knife,  and  a  decanter;  "I  promise  you  most  faithfully 
never  to  forget." 

There  is  a  slight  depth  in  his  tone  that  causes  her  to 
glance  at  him  suspiciously.  Just  then,  as  it  happens,  he 
too  is  looking  at  her;  her  brows  contract. 

"  No,  really,"  he  says  gayly,  "  there  is  no  occasion  for 
distrust;  I  mean  it;  I  shaVt  forget,  ever.  That  is  obey- 
ing you,  is  it  not?  And  fortunately  my  memory  is  excel- 
lent. Why,  it  seems  to  me  now  only  as  yesterday  since 
I,  an  overgrown  lad,  used  to  carry  you  for  miles  through 
heather  and  stubble,  and  think  myself  richly  rewarded  at 
the  last  if  you — what  a  little  tyrant  yon  were! — would 
give  me  a  kiss  for  my  reward!" 

"  Ah!"  says  the  girl.  She  lays  her  hand  upon  the  back 
of  a  chair  and  gazes  at  him  with  a  pale  face  and  with  an 
expression  of  concentrated  wrath  within  her  eyes. 

"Well,  what  if  you  did  kiss  me  then?"  persists  he, 
with  a  little  laugh,  raising  his  brows.  '•'  You  were  but  a 
willful  child  of  nine,  and  you  don't  kiss  me  now,  worse 
luck,"  laughing  again,  "so  why  look  at  me  like  that? 
But  come  to  supper,  I  entreat  you,  with  what  appetite  we 
may.  By  the  bye,  how  is  it  with  you?" 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  eaten  anything  for  a  week,"  con- 
fesses Audrey — with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  she 
finds  herself  smiling  bask  at  hinu  After  all,  what  is  to 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  149 

be  gained  by  encouraging  disdain,  or  nursing  one's  wrath 
for  a  creature  so  indifferent  to  one's  love  or  hatred?  And, 
besides,  what  comes  of  one's  joys  and  griefs?  An  end 
once  attained,  how  poor  it  appears!  All  life's  big  designs 
are  so  many  glittering  myths  only  put  forward  to  tempt 
one  to  a  betrayal  of  one's  sad  weaknesses,  to  show  up  the 
very  poverty  of  one's  so-called  strength.  She  will  forget 
for  a  little  hour  her  poverty,  her  secret  sorrow  that  is 
scarce  acknowledged  even  to  her  own  heart,  that  little 
dread  about  "  dad's"  health — everything,  and  take  the 
good  the  moment  gives0  "Just  imagine — if  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  were  to  see  you  now,"  she  says,  with  a  bright, 
eager  light  upon  her  beautiful  face  which  is  very  seldom 
seen  there,  "  despising  her  ball,  her  guests,  her — " 

"  Daughter,  the  fond  Georgina — and  all  for  you !  There 
would  lie  the  sting.  I'm  sorry  only  for  one  thing,"  says 
Mr.  Vyner  thoughtfully,  "  and  I  must  say  it  was  amiss  of 
me;  why  on  earth  didn't  I  think  of  secreting  a  bottle  of 
her  champagne  about  my  portly  person  before  quitting 
her  ancestral  bovvers?" 

A  little  shade  falls  on  Audrey. 

"Ah!"  she  says.  "You  see  you  should  have  stayed 
there;  you  would  have  had  a  so  much  better  supper."  A 
vivid  fixed  crimson  springs  into  her  cheeks,  an  expression 
that  may  be  termed  shy  creeps  into  her  downcast  face. 
It  is  not  so  easy,  in  spite  of  strong  resolution,  to  forget 
that  terrible  bugbear  the  want  of  money. 

"  You  don't  often  make  silly  speeches,"  remarks  Mr. 
Vyner  calmly,  after  a  long  minute's  silence  spent  in  con- 
templation of  the  wonderfully  new  and  pretty  diffidence 
upon  the  face  opposite;  "  but  just  now  you  have  managed 
it.  Let  me  assure  you  that  the  supper  is  not  known  upon 
earth  that  would  tempt  me  from  the  one  now  before  me." 

She  makes  him  no  answer;  and  again  he  loses  himself 
in  a  lengthened  study  of  her  expression.  To  make  an 
analytical  examination  of  every  character  that  might  come 
beneath  his  notice  has  been  his  almost  unconscious  habit 
for  many  years.  And  what  a  programme  she  has  present- 
ed him  with  to-night,  what  a  hurried  list  of  most  of  the 
deeper  emotions — dignity,  gayety,  reproach,  anger!  And, 
after  all,  this  strange  sweet  embarrassment  that  has  fallen 
upon  her,  this  most  childish  of  all  the  emotions,  this  girl- 
ish shyness,  this  ia^t  :ihase  of  her  varied  humors  hag 


150  DICK'S    SWEETHEAST. 

suited  her  best.     How  pretty  she  looks!    ±iow  uwauti 
fully  white  are  her  hands!     How — Pshaw! 

"To  return  to  our  first  thought,"  he  says  lightly. 
"  You  were  wondering  what  Mrs.  Drummond  would  say 
if  she  could  now  look  in  upon  me.  I  turn  the  tables 
upon  you,  madam.  I  ask  you  how  would  it  be  were  Sir 
Chicksy  at  this  awful  juncture  to  look  in  upon  you?" 

"  Well,  what  if  he  did?"— coldly. 

"I  should  be  afraid  to  think.  Would  he — you  know 
him  well — would  he  murder  me?  Fancy  an  apparition  of 
Sir  Chicksy  standing  in  yonder  doorway  armed  with  a 
claymore — he  is  a  Scotch  baronet,  is  he  not? — and  with  a 
dangling  night-cap  on  his  sunny  head!  By  the  bye,  he 
wears  a  night-cap,  doesn't  he?"  He  pauses,  and  gazes  at 
her  as  if  for  information. 

"  What!"  cries  Miss  Ponsonby,  considerably  taken 
aback  by  his  rather  suggestive  question;  then — "  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know!"  she  says  indignantly. 

"  Then,  as  none  of  us  know,  I'm  absolutely  positive  he 
does!"  declares  Mr.  Vyner,  unmoved.  "A  high  one, 
generously  tasseled!  I  believe  it  would  be  a  tassel  that 
would  bob  over  his  aristocratic  nose — a  most  confounding 
tassel  of  abnormal  stoutness  and  unparalleled  length!  I 
feel  I  should  go  down — before  it — I  should  go— " 

"  Go  home?"  suggests  Miss  Ponsonby. 

"Oh,  not  yet!  Do  not  make  your  gentle  hint  more 
apparent;  I  have  not  yet  half  finished  this  paragon 
amongst  chickens.  Now  tell  me  why  you  would  not  go 
to  Mrs.  Drummond's  to-night?" 

"  First,  because  she  did  not  choose  to  ask  me  until  she 
found  the  Duchess  was  in  my  favor.  But  the  joke  of  this 
part  of  my  story  lies  in  the  fact  that  she  might  quite  as 
well  have  given  me  my  invitation  at  the  proper  moment, 
ac  I  should  undoubtedly  at  any  time  have  refused  it." 

"But  why — why?" — a  little  impatiently. 

"  '  Because  I  could  not  so 

Be  drest 
As  I  were  going  to  a  feast/  " 

replies  she  with  a  faint  flush.  "  I  might  perhaps  hav«  got 
the  money  to  buy  a  new  gown,  if  I  had  asked  dad  for  it,  at 
the  expense  of  his  denying  himself  half  a  dozen  of  the  little 
trivial  things  that  go  to  make  his  life  sweet.  He  would 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  151 

gire  me  every  penny  he  possesses;  he  would  probably  sell 
some  of  his  dearest  possessions — his  books — to  get  me  a 
few  yards  of  muslin  in  which  to  pretend  to  enjoy  myself 
^or  au  hour  or  two.  But  do  you  think  I  should  enjoy 
those  two  hours,  knowing  how  they  were  procured P 
What  a  purgatory  they  would  be!'" 

"  They  would  indeed."  says  Vyner,  softly.  He  does 
her  full  justice  in  this  matter  at  least.  He  understands 
^perfectly  the  loyalty  of  the  affection  that  could  find  no 
happiness  in  a  pleasure  secured  at  the  expense  of  one 
beloved. 

"  The  boys  are  bother  enough  to  him,"  she  goes  on  re- 
gretfully. "  Why  should  I  add  to  his  worries?  At  this 
affair  at  the  Dutchess' it  will  be  different,  as  she  has  insisted 
upon  giving  all  the  dresses,  and  we  are  to  wear  our  stage- 
costumes  during  the  evening.  But  you  now  see" — with 
a  wavering  smile — "  that  I  could  not  have  gone  to-night, 
though  my  very  heart  had  been  set  upon  it." 

There  is  silence  for  a  full  minute;  then  Mr.  Vyner, 
pushing  back  his  chair  with  a  rather  ungovernable  haste, 
rises  to  his  feet. 

"  The  scales  of  this  world  are  too  uneven,"  he  says,  in 
a  low  voice.  "  One  has  everything  that  he  wants,  and 
then  wants  everything!  And — and  there  are  those  who 
would  alter  this  injustice — yet  dare  not!" 

He  raises  his  eyes  to  hers  with  an  effort. 

"  No,  they  dare  not,"  returns  she  very  distinctly. 

"  It  seems  past  belief  hard  that,  when  you  have  so  few 
enjoyments,  you  should  be  denied  even  one." 

"  This  one  would  not  have  been  an  enjoyment.  Con- 
sole yourself  with  that  thought.  Even  you  " — with  an 
expressive  gesture  and  a  smiling  glance  at  the  impromptu 
supper-table — "did  not  find  it  so." 

"  But  any  break  in  upon  your  monotony  should  count." 

"Tut!"  says  she,  shrugging  her  shoulders  with  the 
vehement  half-foreign  gesture  she  has  inherited  from  her 
mother.  "Monotony  is  a  thing  for  which  we  must  all 
prepare  ourselves. 

"  '  We  dance  like  fairies  in  a  ring,  and 

Our  whole  life  is  but  a  nauseous  tautology.' 

And  now  good-night."     She  holds  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"  Come  with  me  at  least  as  far  as  the  hall-door,"  en- 
treats he. 


152  DICK'S    SWEETHEAKT. 

Throwing  wide  the  door  when  they  come  to  it,  they  let 
in  a  flood  of  moonlight  that  brightens  up  the  somber  hall 
and  lies  in  a  silver  pathway  across  the  gravel.  The  stars 
have  come  out  even  more  brilliantly  in  the  clear  sky,  and 
a  soft  wind  plays  upou  Audrey's  cheeks  as  she  steps  into 
the  pale  porch  hung  with  sleeping  roses,  whose  perfume 
makes  sweet  the  passing  hour.  A  few  thin  luminous 
clouds  crossing  the  horizon  darken  it  momentarily;  other- 
wise the  tranquil  expanse  of  heaven  is  undisturbed. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  at  the  Castle  ntjout 
these  rehearsals?"  says  Vyner,  holding  her  hand. 

"  Who  shall  say?"  returns  she,  stepping  back  from  him 
and  releasing  her  fingers. 

" '  To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow — 
It  is  a  period  nowhere  to  be  found, 
Unless,  perchance,  in  the  fool's  calendar." 

She  moves  away  from  him,  the  moonlight  following  and 
catching  amorously  at  the  trailing  folds  of  her  soft  gown. 
At  the  door,  almost  as  she  is  lost  in  the  infolding  dark- 
ness of  the  house  beyond,  she  looks  back  at  him  and 
waves  her  hand.  One  ray  from  Diana's  throne,  more  vent- 
urous than  the  rest,  falls  into  her  liquid  eyes  as  they  turn 
slowly  to  where  he  still  is  standing  on  the  gravel.  Are 
there  tears  in  them?  Again  she  makes  him  that  mute 
adieu,  and  then  is  gone. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"An!  You,  Dick?"  says  Dolores,  with  a  little  fond 
flush  and  a  gesture  of  glad  surprise.  She  has  stepped 
through  the  armory  door  that  opens  upon  the  western  end 
of  the  garden,  to  find  herself  almost  in  her  lover's  arms. 

The  sun,  shining  generously  upon  all  things,  is  dancing 
attendance  in  quite  a  pointed  fashion  upon  the  soft  cream- 
colored  folds  of  the  Indian  silk  in  which  she  has  encased 
her  dainty  body,  and  is  reveling  in  her  sunny  locks  and 
in  the  happy  innocent  eyes  so  like  forget-me-nots.  Lace 
ruffles  of  an  olden  day  come  barely  to  her  elbow;  but  long 
Su6de  gloves  of  a  pale  color  lie  in  pretty  wrinkles  upon 
her  rounded  arms.  Of  a  hat  she  is  guiltless,  disdaining 
it  in  this  glorious  weathcri  but  her  lovely  face  looks  np 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  153 

at  him  from  under  a  cream-tinted  umbrella  that  seems  as 
an  aureole  round  a  face  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  sweet,  as  to 
be  almost  saint -like. 

*'  Oh,  love,"  aays  Bouverie  to  himself,  as  he  gazes  mutely 
at  her  exceeding  beauty,  "  what  am  I  that  I  should  have 
gained  not  only  your  pure  face,  but  your  heart,  that  is 
even  still  more  pure?"  But  what  Dick  really  does  say  to 
Dolores  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  adoration 
for  her  of  which  his  soul  is  full. 

"  You,  Dick?"  says  she,  in  her  glad  surprise. 

"  You  have  guessed  aright,"  returns  he  gayly,  taking 
and  holding  the  little  hand  she  extends  so  readily.  "  But 
why  this  blush,  Miss  Lome,  and  why  this  suspicious  con- 
fusion, and  why  this  very  fetching  array?  If  1  am  in 
the  way,  if  I  am  to  come  under  the  head  of  'trumpery,' 
say  so,  and,  whilst  there  is  yet  time,  let  me  depart  with 
my  broken  heart." 

"I  think  I  see  you  going — even  then,"  says  Miss  Lome, 
making  him  a  contemptuous  little  moue.  "  But  my  gown 
— do  you  really  like  it?  I — I — fancied  you  might  come 
up  this  afternoon;  and  Lai  lie" — a  little  shyly — "  says  I 
look  so  nice  in  it  that  I  thought  I'd  show  it  to  you.  But 
I  didn't  dream  you  would  be  here  so  early." 

"You  should  have  dreamt  it  then;  you  should  never 
dream  of  anything  but  me!  " 

"  Perhaps  I  did  not  dream  at  all." 

"A  paltry  way  of  getting  out  of  it!  Be  it  known  to 
you,  madam,  that,  according  to  some  great  thinkers,  the 
brain  is  never  idle;  and  so,  in  your  sleeping  moments, 
dreams  of  something  or  some  one  must  have  entered  into 
it!" 

"But  I  wasn't  asleep,"  says  Dolores,  drawing  up  her 
brows.  "  Now  where  does  your  argument  go  to — eh?  Bah! 
What  a  goose  you  are!  "  All  this  she  says  with  the  most 
open  and  flagrant  want  of  respect,  and  having  said  it,  she 
slips  her  hand  into  his,  and  rubs  her  soft  cheek  up  and 
down  in  k;*tenish  fashion  against  his  sleeve.  "  What  a 
sweet  day  it  is,"  she  says,  in  a  little  sighing  whisper,  "  and 
how  happy  I  am." 

A  passionate  tenderness  floods  the  young  man's  face. 

"  Really — really?"  he  whispers  back  to  her.  "  Then  I 
can  make  you  happy?" 

"Dick,"  says  she,  with  a  iudden  change  of  tone — her 


154  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

smile  fades,  with  a  little  clinging  half-frightened  gesture 
she  slips  her  arms  round  him — "  I  hope  I  am  not  too 
happy."  She  sighs.  "  When  people  are  too  happy,  what 
then?"  She  trembles. 

"  Nonsense!  "  exclaims  he  rather  roughly,  but  pressing 
her  slender  form  very  close  to  him.  "  No  one  is  too 
happy.  What  ridiculous  fancies  you  get  into  your  head! 
Arid,  even  if  one  were,  why,  one  would  go  on  being  so,  of 
course!  And  now  let  me  look  at  your  gown" — putting 
her  a  little  way  back  from  him.  "  How  charming — how 
delicious!  It  is — yes,  it  is  really  worthy  even  of  yon!  " 

"  What  a  base  flatterer! "  protests  she,  recovering  her 
spirits  and  laughing  gayly.  "And  now  tell  me  what 
brought  you  up  here  '  in  the  morning,  oh,  so  early*  ?  " 

"I  hardly  know.  I  felt  restless,  unsettled,  and  as 
though  I  must  see  you  once  again.  I  thought  a  decent 
visiting  hour  would  never  arrive,  that  I  might  start  for 
Greylands.  Oh,  for  the  time,"  says  Bouverie,  drawing 
her  hand  within  his  arm  as  they  walk  along  together 
through  the  scented  rows  of  roses  and  giving  it  a  loving 
squeeze  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  heart,  "  when  I  need  not 
come  visiting  ycu  at  all — when  the  longest  journey  from 
me  to  you  will  be  from  the  stables  or  the  library  to  your 
loudoir!  " 

"  Ah,  I  often  think  of  that!"  says  Dolores,  with  such 
sudden,  sweet,  genuine  good  faith,  that  regardless  of  con- 
sequences and  the  long  line  of  windows,  he  stoops  and 
kisses  her  upon  the  spot. 

"  How  did  you  enjoy  last  night?"  asks  she — it  is  the 
morning  after  Mrs.  Drummond's  ball. 

"Altogether,  when  dancing  with  you;  not  at  all  other- 
wise. The  whole  affair  was  slow,  I  thought.  It  dragged; 
it  wanted  something." 

"It  wanted  Audrey,"  says  Dolores.  "I  missed  her 
more  than  I  can  tell  you.'* 

"Did  you?  The  rest  of  us  missed  Vyner.  Where  on 
earth  did  he  disappear  to?  He  never  put  in  an  appear- 
ance until  twelve,  and  was  no  sooner  come  than  gone. 
Mrs.  Drummond  was  furious  about  it — at  least,  so  Mrs. 
Wemyss  told  me — and  so  was  *  my  sweet  girl '  "—Mrs. 
Drummond's  open-air  name  for  her  daughter. 

^  "  Dick,"  says  Dolores,  giving  him  a  very  gentle  little 
pinch,  "  how  dare  you  call  any  on«  '  sweet '  but  me?  But 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  I5f 

what  was  Mr.  Vyner's  reason  for  his  strange  behavior? 
He  came  up  to  me  and  spoke  to  me  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing very  handsome  but  very  cross,  and — " 

"  Dolores."  interrupted  Dick,  "how  dare  you  call  any 
one  handsome  but  me!  As  to  Vyner,  I  believe  he  was 
afraid  Miss  Drummond  would  do  him  the  honor  to  pro- 
pose to  him." 

"  He  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  care  much  for  any  one — 
does  he?"  says  Dolores,  making  her  assertion  with  all  the 
air  of  one  who  hopes  and  expects  to  be  contradicted. 

"No.  Vyner  is  not  a  marrying  man,"  asserts  Dickc 
He  is  looking  the  other  way,  so  does  not  notice  the  quick 
Bhade  of  disappointment  that  crosses  the  face  of  his  little 
companion  at  his  words.  "  Regular  old  bachelor,  I  should 
say!  I  couldn't  imagine  him  writing  sonnets  to  his  mis- 
tress' eyebrow,  for  example,  or  otherwise  playing  the  fool." 

"Then  you  really  think,"  murmurs  Dolores  a  little 
plaintively,  "that,  if  a  man  honestly  loves  a  woman,  as 
vou  say  you  love  me,  he  must  necessarily  play  the — the 
fool?" 

"Now,  once  for  all,"  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  promptly, 
"let  me  lay  down  the  law  for  you  on  this  point — our 
law.  You  and  I,  to  begin  with,  are  altogether  different 
from  the  rest  of  the  world.  If  I  choose  to  crawl  in  an 
abject  fashion  at  your  feet,  to  feel  really  obliged  to  you  if 
you  will  trample  upon  me,  to  experience  the  most  intense 
invard  gratification  if  you  ask  me  to  perform  the  smallest 
service  for  you — such  as  standing  on  my  head,  or  cutting 
my  throat,  or  anything  of  that  sort — if,  in  short,  I  feel  il 
a  finer  thing  to  be  your  slave  than  any  other  woman's 
king,  why,  all  that  is  not  folly:  it  is  merely  what  is  fit 
and  proper  between  you  and  me!  But  in  anybody  else  it 
would  be —  Well,  my  judgment  is  not  always  sound,  but 
I  dare  say  it  might  be  considered  a  little  weak — but  not 
in  me,  remember,  because  you  are  you,  and  there  is  n< 
one  in  all  the  world  to  be  compared  with  you — see?" 

"No,  I  don't  see  at  all!"  exclaims  his  paragon,  with 
startling  decision  and  a  somewhat  grievous  note  in  IKV 
voice.  "  1  never  listened  to  such  folly?  And  you  mussr 
know  I  don't  want  you  to  crawl,  Dick,  just  like  a  horrid 
worm,  and  that  I  wouldn't  trample  upon  you  for  anything 
you  could  offer  1" 


156  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  says  Bouverie,  airily;  "let  us  g* 
on  to  the  next  paragraph.  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  so 
in  love  as  Brnno?" 

"With  Mrs.  Wemyss?  It  is  as  apparent  as  the  day? 
And  I'm  very — "  She  stops  short  and  glances  at  him 
from  under  the  huge  umbrella.  "Are  you  glad  about 
it?"  she  asks,  anxiously. 

"  If  she  will  have  him — yes,  very!" 

"  Then  so  am  I,"  said  Dolores,  with  an  adorable  smile 
and  an  air  of  deep  relief.  "  And,  as  to  having  him,  I 
know  she  will!  Her  eyes!  Did  you  ever  watch  her  when 
she  is  looking  at  Bruno  and  he  doesn't  know  it?" 

"  I  have  better  eyes  than  hers  to  watch,"  says  Dick — 
"  your  eyes." 

"  Then  you  must  be  forever  looking  in  the  glass,"  re- 
turns she,  with  mock  reproach — they  have  seated  them- 
selves upon  a  mossy  mound,  and  as  she  speaks  she  takes  his 
chin  into  the  hollow  of  her  little  palm  and  compels  him 
to  look  at  her — "because  your  eyes  are  mine  now,  and 
mine  yours.  Oh,  you  conceited  boy!  Out  of  your  own 
mouth  I  condemn  you." 

She  laughs  a  soft  tuneful  laugh,  in  which  he  joins. 

"  What  book  is  that  in  your  pocket?"  asks  Dolores, 
drawing  it  into  fuller  view  as  she  speaks.  "  Swinburne? 
Corns,  and  read  something  to  me.  You  read  well — and 
your  voice  is  the  sweetest  in  the  world  to  me." 

"  It — it's  not  always  easy  to  get  a  thing  one  likes  out  of 
him,"  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  with  mild  confusion. 

"Go  on!  Read  me  the  first  thing  your  eyes  may  light 
upon.  Do  you  know,  I  have  never  read  any  of  his  works, 
though  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of  him,  and  know  that 
the  praise  of  him  is  unlimited.  Goon!"  She  leans  back 
lazily,  and  clasps  her  hands  behind  her  sunny  head. 

"  Well,  but  I  hardly  know  what  to  choose,"  protest* 
Bouverie,  vaguely. 

"I  have  told  you.  Open  at  hap-hazard,  and  begin  at 
the  very  first  line  your  eyes  may  meet." 

With  a  mental  reservation,  Mr.  Bouverie  proceeds  to 
obey  her.  There  is  comfort  in  the  thought  that  he  can 
hit  the  book  fall  in  the  most  carelessly  accidental  manner 
possible  if  his  first  glance  at  the  printed  page  is  not — er — 
that  is — well,  exactly  to  his  liking.  He  opens  the  book, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  157 

his  eyes  fall  upon  the  page,  he  obeys  her  order,  and  reaaa 
from  the  first  line  they  meet: 

"The  time  of  lovers  is  brief 

From  the  fair  first  joy  to  the  grief 
That  tells  when  love  is  grown  old, 
From  the  warm,  wild  kiss  to  the  cold; 
From  the  red-  to  the  white-rose  leaf 
They  have  but  a  season  to  seem 
As  rose  leaves  lost  on  a  stream, 

That  part  not  and  pass  not  apart, 
As  a  spirit  from  dream  to  dream, 

As  a  sorrow  from  heart  to  heart." 

He  would  have  gone  on;  but  a  low  sigh  escaping  from 
her  stops  him. 

"  '  The  time  of  lovers  is  brief/  Is  that  true?"  she 
says.  "Must  it  be  true?  Alas,  what  a  sad  song  you 
chose!" 

"  I  did  not  choose  it!"  exclaims  he  earnestly.  "  I  was 
to  read  the  very  first  thing — " 

"Yes,  yes.  And  how  unlucky!"  says  she  dreamily. 
"  Did  he  know?  Will  it  be  true  in  our  case?" 

"My  darling,  no!  Dolores,  look  at  me.  Is  it  me  you 
fear,  or  is  it  yourself?  I  shall  not  be  flattered  if  it  is  the 
latter.  My  dear,  dear  heart,  nothing  shall  part  us,  never 
— never!  What,  are  you  superstitious,  you  silly  child, 
and  depressed  because  of  a  few  words  that  can  have 
nothing  to  do  with  you  or  me?" 

"It  is  foolish,  isn't  it?"  she  says,  smiling  languidly. 
"  Yet  I  doubt  the  fulfillment,  the  continuance,  of  my 
happiness — at  times,  you  know — only  at  times.  There 
seems  ever  to  be  a  cloud  above  me."  She  draws  her 
breath  quickly,  and,  by  a  swift,  light  action  gives  an 
expressive  illustration  of  her  meaning  over  her  head. 
Then  her  frail  little  hands  drop  into  her  lap  again — hands 
so  frail  that  the  many  diamonds  and  pearls  that  cover 
them — his  gifts — seem  to  weigh  them  down. 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  so  fragile,"  says  Bouverie,  paling 
a  little,.  "  If  you  were  stronger,  no  such  morbid  thoughts 
would  distress  you.  What  a  little  hand!  How  warm  it 
is — how  listless!  And  how  pale  you  are!  You  seem  to 
me  as  unlasting  as  the  dew." 

"  No,  no;  do  not  liken  me  to  the  dew,"  murmurs  she, 
softly.  "  I  should  have  to  leave  you,  then,  and  so  soon, 
so  soon!  Why,  what  a  little  life  you  would  give  me!" 


168  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

He  has  his  arms  round  her,  and,  as  she  says  this,  she 
turns  her  face  to  his  in  caressing  fashion.  But  there  is 
something  in  her  tone,  her  light  words,  that  tortures  him. 
He  does  not  speak,  but,  in  a  little  agony  of  love  and  fear, 
presses  his  lips  to  her  pretty  hair. 

"No,  I  am  like  white  violets.  You  remember?  They 
are  what  you  first  told  me  I  resembled.  I  will  not  have 
your  first  fancy  slighted,  or  changed."  She  pauses  for  a 
moment;  and  then,  as  though  half  unconsciously,  fall 
from  her  lips  the  words:  "  'Violets  for  a  maiden  dead!'" 

"Dolores!"  exclaims  he,  sharply,  putting  her  almost 
angrily  from  him,  and  springing  to  his  feet;  "  I  forbid 
you  to  talk  like  that;  do  you  hear?  I  forbid  you!" 

"  I  was  not  talking,"  returns  she,  a  little  startled.  "  It 
was  only  a  thought  that  came  to  me.  But  it  shall  be  as 
you  wish" — holding  out  her  hands  to  him — "I  shall 
never  even  think  of  that  line  again  if  I  can  preveht  my- 
self. Come  back  to  me,  Dick." 

Of  course  he  comes  back  to  her;  but  there  is  still  a 
great  sadness  in  his  face,  born  of  vague  fear  and  an  un- 
defined possibility  too  cruel  to  be  brought  into  a  more 
forcible  light.  Ever  since  his  heart  first  woke  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  its  love,  his  affection  for  her  has  been  tinged  with 
a  nervous  dread  of  something — intangible  but  terrible — 
that  may  arise  to  part  him  from  her  or  her  from  him. 
Even  in  small  things  he  has  found  food  to  sustain  this 
lover's  torment.  A  sudden  pallor  arising  from  the  extra 
sultriness  of  a  summer  day,  and  he  would  believe  her 
dying;  a  little  natural  petty  languor,  and  his  spirits  died 
within  him.  There  was  indeed  one  day  in  which  she  had 
had  a  cold — a  very  slight  cold,  a  mere  trifling  affair — 
when  he  told  himself  his  heart  was  broken.  His  love  for 
this  gentle  beautiful  creature  is  an  idolatry — keen  and 
iweet,  redolent  of  all  things  pure.  In  her  is  centered 
every  hope  he  has,  every  thought,  every  dream  of  a  happy 
future. 

"Your  mind  is  still  wandering  away  from  me,"  she 
gays  presently,  in  a  half-jealous  tone,  marking  the  shade 
upon  his  brow.  "Are  you  thinking" — looking  at  him 
•with  a  sudden  smile — "of  my  'cloud,'  my  'little  rift'? 
I  think  of  it  too;  but  nothing  comes  of  my  thought.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  All  my  life  I  have  lived  with  it; 
but" — with  a  comical  gesture  of  despair — "I  know  lew 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  lfl& 

of  it  to-day  than  any  one.  It  is  not  death — of  that  I  am 
eure;  but  that  is  all." 

"  Are  yon  sure?"  asks  Bouverie,  ii  a  low  tone,  his  voice 
rather  husky.  "Can  any  one  be  sure?  What — what 
did  your  mother  die  of — your  father?'' 

"Of  no  disease  that  might  fall  upon  me — nothing 
hereditary.  Auntie  has  assured  me  of  that,  and  auntie 
never  lies.  No,  it  will  not  be  de?*:hj  but  sometimes  it  's 
borne  in  upon  me  that  it  maybe — ^  /ef."  She  pauses  foi 
a  moment,  and  then,  turning  toward  him  with  a  sweet 
trust  within  her  eyes,  lays  her  hand  on  his.  "Since  I 
have  met  you  I  have  cared  less  for  that  thought,"  she 
says;  "I  shall  have  you  to  share  it  with  me."  Then  sud- 
denly another,  a  new  fear  seems  to  strike  her;  she  turns 
pale.  "But  what  if  you  could  not  share  it?"  she  says. 

"  Well,  then  1  should  be  oat  of  the  land  of  the  living," 
returns  he,  cheerily,  pressing  the  hand  he  holds  to  his 
lips.  "Nothing  but  my  final  departure  from  this  present 
world  could  prevent  my  sharing  with  you  both  your  griefs 
and  joys.  What  is  my  life  for,  unless  it  be  to  make  youra 
happier?"  Then  he  quotes  a  little  tender  verse  to  her, 
very  tenderly: 

"  '  Bein?  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  **&d 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend, 
Nor  services  to  do  till  you  require.' 

But  why  worry  yourself  at  all,  my  darling,  about  an 
unknown  woe  that  may  be — nay,  that  must  be — purely 
imaginary?" 

"  It  is  not  that,"  she  says,  slowly  shaking  her  head. 
"  I  have  felt  the  shadow  of  it  too  long  to  disbelieve  in  it; 
yet  I  have  never  sought  to  solve  its  mystery.  Why  should 
I?  Some  day  I  shall  know!  but  the  further  off  that  day 
is  the  better.  Come — let  us.  forget  it!"  exclaims  she, 
gayly,  throwing  up  her  charming  head  with  a  sudden 
pretty  impatience  that  suggests  a  desiro  for  freedom  from 
unpleasing  reflection.  "  There  are  moments  when  I  can 
not  know  discontent,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  I  have  the 
glad  sunshine,  the  long,  sweet  day  before  me.  and,  above 
and  beyond  all,  you!"  She  bends  toward  him  impulsive- 
ly, and  gives  him,  of  her  own  loving  accord,  a  soft  caress. 
"I  am  always  happy  on  a  sunny  day  like  this.  See," 
criei  ghe,  suddenly,,  "look  at  that  butterfly!  What  a 


160  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

beauty!'*  She  springs  to  her  feet;  all  her  late  touch  ol 
languor,  her  pensive  glances  have  vanished;  she  is  a  care- 
less child  again,  ignorant  of  secret  care  or  sorrow.  "  There 
he  is!"  she  whispers,  stealing  cautiously,  but  hopefully, 
toward  the  rose-bush  whereon  the  child  of  the  sun  she  has 
so  fancied  is  resting  with  quivering  wings.  But,  light  as 
her  footfall  is,  it  startles  the  pretty  winged  trifler;  and, 
spreading  itself,  it  soars  aloft,  far,  far  beyond  her  reach, 
and,  hurrying  sunward — as  it  were  "  a  flower  that  floats 
on  air" — is  soon  lost  even  to  sight.  "How  provoking!" 
cries  she,  with  a  gay  laugh.  "  You  saw  how  it  eluded 
me?  Ah,  my  hand  has  lost  its  canning!  There  was  a 
time — not  so  long  ago,  either — when  I  should  have  been, 
as  good  as  he.  Pretty  little  wretch!  That  was  when  I 
wore  sun-bonnets;  those  great  big  muslin  things,  you 
know,  like  white  coal-scuttles.  But  of  late  years  I — 
Well  " — quickly — "it  is  not  correct  to  run  about  so  much 
when  one  is  quite  grown  up,  is  it  now?"  She  seats  her 
Belf  beside  him  once  again,  and  pushes  her  fingers  int* 
his.  "Let  me  tell  you  your  fortune,"  she  says,  stooping 
to  pluck  a  great-eyed  marguerite  growing  at  her  feet 

"  My  future  is  told.  I  shall  wed  you,  and  live  happj 
ever  afterward." 

"Perhaps  you  won't,"  retorts  she,  willfully.  "Well, 
let  us  see — this  year — next — " 

He  lays  his  hand  over  the  flower. 

"  See  if  you  love  me  first.  How  could  there  be  any 
true  fortune  unless  there  was  love  in  it?"  he  protests,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  I  forgot,"  murmurs  she.  "  Our  love  seems  so  sure,  so 
certain  a  thing  that —  Now  attend." 

She  goes  through  the  old  world  formula. 

"  *  She  loves  you — a  little,  indifferently,  passionately — 
not  at  all — '  " — plucking  carefully  leaf  by  leaf  the  doomed 
marguerite,  as  all  true  lovers  have  done  before  her,  time 
out  of  mind.  It  stops  at  "  She  loves  you."  "  And  that 
is  best  of  all,"  she  assures  him  with  a  little  nod.  "  If  I 
love  you — as  you  know  I  do — it  means  everything.  Good 
little  flower!  Now  I  shall  put  you  through  your  facings, 
Dick,  and  see  if  all  your  loving  oaths  are  true,  or  if,  per- 
cfcance,  you  have  protested  too  much." 

But  the  second  flower  is  faithful  as  the  first^  and  givei 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAliT.  16J 

its  last  petal  to  the  self-same  words  that  ended  the  life  of 
its  com  rude. 

"Is  not  that  charming?"  laughs  Dolores,  her  eyes 
gloaming  with  real  pleasure.  "  Who  shall  say  there  is  no 
truth  in  these  things?  Bah!  They  are  skeptics  who 
have  no  right  to  breathe  the  air  with  us.  And  was  not 
this  poor  flower — after  all,  I  am  sorry  I  killed  it! — even 
more  worthy  than  its  predecessor?  It  might  have  been  a 
proud  flower  disinclined  to  follow  another's  lead;  yet,  you 
see  it  conquered  its  pride,  overcame  its  inclinations,  and, 
like  a  good  Christian,  adhered  strictly  to  the  truth." 

"It  is  my  turn  now,"  declares  Bouverie,  gayly,  pluck- 
ing another  flower.  "  I  shall  see  when  v:e  shall  be  mar- 
ried. If  it  doesn't  say  this  year,  I  sha'n't  believe  in  that 
strict  adherence  to  the  truth  of  which  you  have  been 
boasting." 

"  You  must  believe  what  it  tells  you,"  says  Dolores, 
leaning  over  his  shoulder  to  watch  his  manipulation  of 
the  flower,  and  see  that  there  is  no  foul  play.  "  Go  on!" 

"  *  This  year,  next  year,  three  years — never!'  " 

They  both  grow  rather  anxious  as  the  last  petals  are 
approached,  and,  when  they  cease  upon  the  fatal  "  never" 
they  are  silent,  and  for  a  moment  refuse  to  look  at  each 
other. 

"  It  is  all  nonsense,"  exclaims  Bonverie  at  last,  flinging 
the  stalk  from  him  with  an  angry  movement — "  utterly 
insane  rubbish!  Let  us  try  it  again,  if  only  to  prove  the 
absurdity  of  it." 

"No,  no,"  says  Dolores,  staying  his  hand.  ''If,  as 
you  say,  it  is  nonsense,  why  try  to  prove  it  so?  Of  course 
there  is  nothing  in  it — and  yet — " 

"  Well — what?"  demands  he  defiantly. 

"Perhaps  it  did  tell  us  the  truth — perhaps  we  never 
shall  be  married!  Who  can  tell  what  lies  before  us?" 

"  A  long  life  together,"  he  declares  stoutly.  "  Little 
raven  that  you  are,  I  will  not  listen  to  your  croaking,' 
And,  as  for  these  marguerites,  I  shall  hate  them  for  ever 
and  ever!" 

"Even  though  they  whispered  to  you  of  my  love?"  re- 
minds she  gently.  "  Poor  things!  I  requited  them  but 
ill — to  give  me  pbnsant  tidings  they  died!" 

"  Was  their  lust  message  then  go  pleasant?"  asks  he, 


162  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

with  a  short  laugh.  "Pshaw!  Why  take  the  trouble 
even  to  think  of  it?" 

"Still  I  wish  it  had  said  something  else — even  thai 
long  three  years."  She  turns  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a 
iittle  troubled  glance  in  their  soft  depths.  "  Sometime? 
foolish  things,  like  these  marguerites,  do  truly  foretell 
the  future  by  a  mere  silly  chance,  as  it  were.  What  if 
we  should  be  parted?  What  if  " — with  a  very  sad  and 
wistful  attempt  at  a  smile — "  that  '  little  rift 'of  mine 
should  be  the  means  of — " 

"  Dolores — Dolores,"  cries  he,  losing  all  self-control, 
"  can  you  really  love  me  and  talk  thus  coldly  of  even  an 
impossible  parting?  The  very  word  means  death  to  me! 
What  should  I  do  without  you?  In  all  this  wide  world 
where  should  I  find  me  a  place?  I  tell  you  that  heart 
and  soul  I  am  so  wrapped  up  in  you  that  there  could  be 
for  me  without  you  no  such  thing  as  existence.  Without 
you!"  He  repeats  hie  own  words  with  such  a  mournful 
cadence  c,nd  in  such  despairing  tones  that  involuntarily 
she  draws  nearer  and  throws  her  arms  around  him. 
"What  words!"  she  says,  in  a  low  tone.  "But  they 
have  no  meaning — none!"  He  presses  her  more  closely 
to  his  heart.  "Darling — my  beloved,"  he  whispers — 
"say  once  again  that  you  love  me!  Let  me  hear  you 
say  it!" 

"  J  love  you!"  returns  she,  with  an  intensity  that  satis- 
fies him. 

They  cling  to  each  other  in  silence.  Is  there  some 
faint  touch  of  despair  in  that  mute  embrace?  No  word 
escapes  them.  From  across  the  far  lawn  there  comes  the 
sighing  of  the  chestnut-leaves,  and  in  the  scented  wind 
are  subtle  whispers  that  no  man  may  learn,  but  that  all 
sad  hearts  must  feel;  over  everything  lies  the  odorous 

breath  of  the  dying  roses. 

******* 

A  day  far  spent,  as  already  evening  has  come  and  gone 
and  night  is  at  hand — a  night  fraught  with  many  emo- 
tions— weal  for  some  and  woe  for  others,  and  change  and 
loss  of  that  dear  hope  that  makes  our  sad  life  glad. 

It  is  the  night  set  apart  for  the  theatricals  at  the  Castle 
--perhaps  most  of  the  actors  therein  feel  some  natural 
nervousness  as  the  hour  of  performance  draws  nigh.  But 
for  Dolores  the  hour  has  no  terror.  She,  standing  beforu 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  163 

the  mirror  in  which  her  charming  image  is  depicted,  is 
lost  in  a  happy  reverie  in  which  Dick  alone  has  place, 
and  is  hopefully  wondering  whether  he  will  be  pleased 
with  her  costumes,  and  if  indeed  in  this  present  one  she 
will  seem  good  in  his  sight.  In  many  ways  she  is  still 
but  a  child,  and  the  longing  to  seem  fair  to  her  lover  is  a 
paramount  feeling  with  her.  No  part  has  been  assigned 
her  in  the  play  that  is  to  open  the  proceedings  at  the  Cas- 
tle; but  she  is  to  appear  in  the  tableaux  later  on  in  some 
character  unknown  to  all  save  those  who  are  behind  the 
scenes.  Even  to  her  aunt — Miss  Maturin — she  has  been 
forbidden  to  reveal  the  secrets  that  are  to  be  kept  sacred 
until  the  night  of  representation. 

It  is  a  very  charming  reflection  that  meets  her  gaze  a^ 
shs  glances  thoughtfully  into  the  mirror — fair  shining 
eyes  and  pretty  yellow  locks  and  small  mouth  soft  and 
sensitive,  lovely  dimpled  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder,  and  a 
throat  of  marvelous  beauty.  She  seems  to  rise  out  of  the 
white  lace  that  enshrouds  her  like  a  very  dream  of  rapt- 
urous childhood  hardly  as  yet  awakened  to  a  knowledge 
of  the  world's  storm.  A  string  of  priceless  pearls  encir- 
cles her  neck — her  only  ornament,  save  the  diamonds  that 
flash  upon  her  little  snowy  hands.  There  is  glad  expect- 
ancy in  her  glance  and  in  the  smile  that  curves  her  lips 
— this  smile  widening  with  some  happy  thought  of  him 
who  fills  her  being — her  lips  part,  and  suddenly,  with  a 
suspicion  of  coquettish  shyness  most  sweet  to  see,  she 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  There  is  no  touch  of  sun  or  fallen  rain 
That  ever  fell  on  a  more  gracious  thing." 

"  Ha,  conceited  lady!  At  last  I  have  caught  you,'* 
says  Miss  Maturin,  entering  her  room,  "standing  in  an 
entranced  attitude  before  your  glass.  And  indeed,"  with 
loving  admiration,  "no  wonder!  Darling  child!  That 
,gown  suits  you  so!  You  look  just  like  a  picture." 

"  Of  what?  Prosperity?"  asks  Dolores,  with  a  laugh 
full  of  amusement,  and  she  remembers  how  she  will  have 
to  enact  the  other  side  of  the  picture  very  shortly.  But 
that  is  a  secret  known  only  to  her  and  the  Duchess  and  a 
very  select  few. 

"  No,  no;  as —  But  I  must  not  make  you  vainer  than 
you  are.  By  the  bye,  would  it  not  have  been  better  to 


164  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

dress  at  the  Castle,  as  you  must  change  this  gown  for  the 
mysterious  garments  that  are  to  astound  me  later  on?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  of  that;  but,  you  see,  as  1  am  not  to 
be  in  the  first  part  of  the  entertainment,  and  as  Audrey 
is  acting,  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  it.  And — and 
Dick,"  with  a  sweet  shy  blush,  "  would  be  there  too,  and 
I  thought  I  should  like  to  look  nice  when  first  he  meets 
me." 

"  Eeasons  '  as  plenty  as  blackberries,' "  quotes  Miss 
Maturin  gayly;  "  but  the  last  is  the  reason,  eh?  However, 
that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  'I  would  give  no  man  a 
reason  upon  compulsion,'  if  I  were  you.  Well,  it  is  ag 
pretty  a  gown  as  ever  I  saw!  That  woman  is  a  Jewell 
Nothing  like  getting  ones  things  from  a  good  place,  after 
all!  'A  good  place — a  good  price!' cry  some.  But,  tut, 
nonsense!  cry  I.  What  does  a  penny  or  two  matter  more 
or  less,  so  long  as  one  is  pleased?  Dearest  heart,  you  are 
as  sweet  a  thing  as  ever  eye  did  rest  upon!" 

"You  think  he  will  like  me,  that  is  it?"  asks  Dick's 
betrothed,  with  an  anxious  air  and  a  conspicuous  blush, 
and  an  elaborate  gesture  toward  her  gown. 

"If  he  doesn't,  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself! 
But  even  the  doubt  wrongs  him."  Then  she  grows  silent, 
and  the  fond  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  girl  before  her 
dies  from  her  eyes,  and  she  seems  lost  in  a  painful  reverie. 
"So  long  ago  it  seems,"  she  says;  "  and  yet  to-night  it  is 
so  near!  Just  in  such  a  gown  I  have  seen  her,  with  those 
very  pearls  around  her  neck!  I  am  thinking  of  your 
mother,  child — your  counterpart — and  all  the  past  rises 
within  my  heart  and  fills  me  with  dread." 

"With  dread,  auntie?" 

"Ay,  child!  Has  any  one  lived  a  life-time  to  find  no 
dread  in  their  past?  But" — hastily — "  half  my  fears  are 
imaginary,  as  they  always  were.  Let  us  forget  them." 

"I  am  like  my  mother,  then?"  says  Dolores,  looking  at 
herself  once  more  very  earnestly  in  the  long  mirror. 

"  Strangely  like.  Yet  I  think  I  never  noticed  the 
resemblance  so  much  before.  What  is  it" — impatiently 
— "  that  brings  back  to  me  the  past  to-night  with  such 
terrible  vividness!  I  seem  to  hear  and  feel  and  see,  as 
though  it  were  before  me,  all  that  should  be  forgotten!  Is 
it  a  presentiment  of  evil?"  Then,  seeing  the  girl's  rapt 
inquiring  look,  she  checks  herself  by  a  strong  effort  and 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  165 

sinks  into  a  chair.  "Tut!  What  a  brain  I  have!"  shs 
says,  with  a  light  laugh.  "  Does  it  ever  rest,  I  wonder? 
Come,  darling;  the  carriage  will  be  round  soon.  Come 
to  the  library,  and  have  some  tea  before  starting." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  theatricals  at  the  Castle  are  like  all  other  theatric- 
als, neither  better  nor  worse,  with  one  great — nay,  start- 
ling exception.  It  is  given  to  Audrey  Ponsonby  positively 
to  electrify  her  audience  by  a  display  of  histrionic  talent 
that,  with  culture,  might  make  her  fortune  on  the  stage, 
and  is  only  too  good  for  a  private  performance. 

From  first  to  last  she  is  the  one  person  who  claims  and 
holds  a  hushed  and  undivided  attention.  Her  beauty 
alone — undisputed  as  it  is — would  not  suffice  for  this;  it 
is  the  absolute  force  and  passion  of  her  acting  that  carry 
all  before  it.  She  is  superb,  unrivaled;  there  is  a  touch 
of  insolence  about  her  face  that  accords  well  with  the 
character  chosen,  and  raises  her  far  above  all  her  com- 
peers. 

Some  old  play  was  selected,  after  all,  in  which  kings 
and  queens  and  all  the  mightiest  of  the  earth  hold 
chief  parts,  and  Audrey,  in  her  white-and-gold  draperies 
which  seem  to  cling  to  her  and  make  one  with  her  slender 
exquisite  shape,  looks  like  a  queen  indeed,  with  a  golden 
crown  upon  her  head  and  gold  chains  hanging  from  her 
gemmed  girdle,  and  all  her  beautiful  hair  let  loose  to  hang 
far  below  her  waist  in  a  waving  glittering  mass. 

There  is  a  restless  fire  in  her  eyes,  and  a  strange  pallor 
on  her  cheeks.  She  enacts  her  part — almost  indeed  cre- 
ating it — with  a  verve,  a  passion  for  which  no  one  there  is 
at  all  prepared.  Some  are  subdued,  some  a  little  shocked, 
all  are  fascinated.  A  more  utter  transformation  than  has 
taken  place  in  her  could  hardly  be  conceived.  The  girl, 
so  haughty  and  reserved  in  her  ordinary  life,  has  for  once 
thrown  aside  all  constraint,  and  is  in  turns  a  fond  impas- 
sioned woman,  a  queen  stern  and  offended — a  being  made 
meek  by  love's  power,  made  mad  by  jealousy.  She  holds 
every  brain  captive  while  she  stands  upon  the  mimic  stage. 

And  now  it  is  all  over,  and,  glad,  radiant,  she  passes 


1*6  DICK'S    SWEETHKJLKT. 

away  from  the  plaudits  that  still  follow,  her  bare  lovely 
arms  filled  with  flowers. 

"To  praise  is  almost  an  impertinence  in  thig  case," 
gays  Vyner,  going  forward  to  meet  her  as  she  enters  the 
greenroom;  "yet  I  must  speak  or  die!  You  were  perfec- 
tion —  that  rarest  of  all  things.  Let  me  congratulate 
you." 

"  Was  dad  looking  at  me?  Had  he  a  good  place?  Was 
;he  pleased?"  asks  she  hurriedly,  ignoring  his  words  as 
though  unheard,  and  speaking  with  an  intensity  of  long- 
ing that  betokens  her  desire  to  get  affirmations  to  all  her 
questions.  Plainly  her  whole  soul  is  in  them. 

"  Yes;  he  could  see  you.  And  he  was  pleased,  I  know. 
Once,  when  you  were  more  than  usually  pathetic,  I  a&w 
tears  in  his  eyes." 

"  Dear  dad!"  says  the  girl,  pressing  her  flowers  to  her 
bosom,  and  whispering  his  name  very  softly.  "  He  taught 
me  my  part,"  she  says,  looking  up  at  Vyner;  "  I  used  to 
say  it  over  and  over  again  to  him  every  morning.  Such 
trouble  as  he  took  with  me!  But  now  I  hope" — smiling 
— "he  thinks  this  last  pupil  of  his  has  not  disgraced  him. 
Did  1  really  get  through  it  well?  What  did — you  think 
of  me?" 

The  excitement  of  her  success,  the  warmth  of  the  ap- 
plause is  still  with  her.  She  has  not  yet  gone  back  to  the 
old  reserve.  There  is  a  distinct  touch  of  coquetry  in  her 
beautiful  eyes  as  she  half  raises  them  to  his  and  glances  at 
him  from  under  her  long  lashes. 

"  For  years  I  have  been  trying  to  answer  that  question 
satisfactorily  to  myself  without  the  faintest  result,"  replies 
Vyner,  slowly.  "  And,  as  for  to-night,  when  one  has 
fallen  beneath  the  spell  of  an  enchantress,  where  is  the 
time  for  any  serious  reflection?  Thought  was  beyond  me; 
I  could  only  sit  still  and  humbly  admire." 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Wemyss?"  calls  somebody,  rushing 
frantically  through  the  room.  "  Seen  her  anywhere,  any 
one?  She's  wanted  for  the  first  tableau;  they  are  all  ar- 
ranged, only  waiting  for  her." 

"  She  was  here  with  Bouverie  a  moment  ago.  Try  the 
little  anteroom  beyond." 

The  little  anteroom  beyond,  being  tried,  yields  up  its 
treasure.  Mrs.  Wemyss,  gliding  out  from  it  into  the 
more  brilliant  room  outside,  in  a  quaint  but  seductive 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  167 

costume  of  crimson-and-gold  and  literally  hung  wifch  se- 
quins, asks  in  the  mildest  of  tones  if  any  one  is  looking 
for  her,  and  is  instantly  captured  and  carried  off  by  the 
frantic  young  man  to  be  posed  in  the  coming  tableau. 

There  are  only  four  or  five  tableaux  in  all,  put  on  as 
little  bits  of  light  and  coloring,  seen  through  a  gauze 
mist,  to  finish  off  the  play — pictures  to  represent  in  living 
form  some  already  seen  upon  canvas,  but  which  will  live 
forever.  They  are  all  exquisitely  arranged,  a  celebrated 
B.A.,  a  friend  of  her  Grace,  having  taken  them  in  hand, 
and  are  all  exquisitely  portrayed. 

As  the  velvet  curtains  part,  and  Dolores,  in  a  gilt  frame, 
stands  revealed  in  all  her  sad  beauty,  a  thrill  of  delight 
runs  through  the  audience.  To  many  of  them  she  is  un- 
known, and  to  them  her  sweetness  is  a  revelation. 

But  through  Miss  Maturin  there  runs  a  shiver  of  unex- 
pressed agony.  She  sinks  back  in  her  seat,  as  though  she 
would  escape  from  the  vision  before  her,  and  at  last  a  few 
incoherent  words  are  forced  from  her. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  murmurs,  indistinctly — almost  uncon- 
sciously; "  they  should  not  have  given  her  such  a  part  as 
that — no,  not  that!" 

Her  voice,  subdued  though  it  is,  is  miserable,  and 
strikes  upon  Mr.  Vyner's  ear,  who  happens  to  be  her 
nearest  neighbor.  Glancing  at  her,  he  notices  how  thor- 
oughly unstrung  she  looks,  and  what  an  ashen  pallor  has 
overspread  her  face;  and,  with  a  desire  for  a  more  minute 
criticism,  he  again  turns  his  gaze  to  the  representation 
before  him. 

Dolores  as  "  Adversity!"  Alas,  how  the  character  suits 
her!  It  seems  as  though  the  feeling  of  it  has  sunk  into 
her  very  soul,  so  sadly  resigned  she  looks,  so  replete  with 
gentle  melancholy.  Leaning  against  a  wall,  with  her 
mournful  eyes  looking  straight  before  her  into  a  possibly 
aappy  past  now  gone  forever,  with  one  soft  arm  upraised 
and  a  pale  bunch  of  flowers  in  the  small  clinging  fingers, 
with  a  divine  resignation  upon  her  perfect  face,  she  ap- 
pears before  them  all,  more  sweet,  more  sorrowful,  than 
words  can  tell. 

"It  is  horrible!"  mutters  Miss  Maturin  through  her 
pale  lips. 

"  A  mere  bit  of  exceedingly  pretty  acting,  after  all," 
aays  Vyner  cheerfullr.  _  "  Dear  me,  how  wonderfully  well 


168  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

she  looks  the  part!    Rather  spoils  the  effect  to  think  how 
she  will  be  laughing  over  it  in  a  minute  or  two — eh?" 

He  feels  a  strange  tenderness  toward  the  woman  beside 
him  as  he  notes  her  pain,  and  tells  himself  how  she  can  nof 
endure  even  in  imagination  to  see  her  darling  so  distressed. 

"  Yes,  yes,  no  doubt!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  recovering 
herself  with  an  effort.  "  It  is  only  that  I  can  not  bear  to 
gee  her  look  like  that." 

She  draws  a  heavy  breath,  and  turns  her  head  with  a 
smile  that  is  almost  tragic  tc  her  companion.  This  change 
of  position  brings  her  glance  toward  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  She  raises  her  eyes — 

And  then  all  at  once  she  is  unaware  of  Vyner's  vicinity 
The  very  walls  of  the  room  seem  to  fade  away  from  her, 
the  mists  of  twenty  years  are  pushed  aside;  there  is  noth- 
ing now  in  reality  but  the  earnest,  piercing  gaze  of  two 
dark  eyes. 

The  owner  of  them  bows  to  her.  Afterward  it  seems 
impossible  to  her;  but  in  truth  she  does  return  the  salute. 
How  many  years  have  come  and  gone  since  last  she  and 
this  etranger — who  still  is  not  strange — thus  gazed  at 
each  other,  and  to  what  a  time  his  presence  carries  her 
back — to  what  miserable  hours,  what  moments  fraught 
with  shame!  Once  in  that  terrible  past  this  man  had  lived 
in  the  old  village  where  her  home  had  been,  where  she  and 
her  sister  had  dwelt. 

Great  Heaven,  how  it  all  comes  back!  First  the  happy, 
quiet,  quaint  old  days,  with  no  disturbing  element,  with 
no  griefs,  if  no  great  joys,  in  them — days  perhaps  now  the 
bitterest  of  all  to  dwell  upon;  and  then  the  break-up  of 
the  calm  household,  her  flight  into  Egypt,  as  it  were,  and 
her  fond  vain  hopes  that  all  who  knew  of  her  or  hers  then 
might  haply  be  dead  ere  her  return  to  England;  and, 
lastly,  the  return,  and  with  it  now  the  discovery  that, 
after  seventeen  long  years  of  silence  and  growing  blessed 
forgetful  ness,  one  lives  who  is  here  smiling  at  her,  remem- 
bering as  he  smiles,  no  doubt,  and  ready  to  betray. 

Oh,  the  cruelty  of  it — the  bitter  cruelty  of  it-  to  escape 
for  so  long,  to  be  at  last  undone!  Like  the  lost  spirits  it? 
the  shades,  she  has  been  forever  grasping  aftw  the  waters 
of  oblivion,  and,  like  them,  her  eager  hands  have  failed 
to  seize  them. 

And  still  Dolores  stands  there  a  too  perfect  "Advep 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  160 

sity  " — a  thing  most  beautiful,  bat  to  her — Miss  Maturia 
— positively  repellent.  How  has  the  girl  caught  that 
mournful  expression?  Is  it  only  acting,  or  is  it  real— the 
faint  growing  shadow  of  what  will  one  day  rest  upon  her 
face  forever?  A  desire  to  rise  and  cry  aloud  to  her,  to 
command  her  to  cast  from  her  this  miserable  counterfeit 
of  a  grief  that  may  yet  touch  her,  almost  overcomes  Miss 
Maturin. 

She  conquers  herself,  however;  but,  oh!  the  relief  of  it 
when  the  curtains  close  and  the  pretty  drooping  figure 
and  sad  face  are  hidden  away  behind  it,  and  she  can  lean 
back  on  her  chair  and  lose  herself  in  a  semi-insensibility 
that  yet  is  not  strong  enough  altogether  to  kill  the  ter- 
rible thrilling  sense  of  pain  that  runs  all  through  it! 

The  other  tableaux  are  unseen  by  her,  although  her  open 
eyes  appear  to  rest  upon  them.  She  is  hardly  awake  to 
anything  going  on  around  her,  until  two  soft  hands  are 
laid  upon  her  shoulders,  and  Dolores,  clad  once  more  in 
her  clinging  lace  gown,  stoops  over  her  with  a  little  low, 
happy  laugh. 

"  So  far,  so  good,"  she  gays,  merrily.  "  Business  first, 
you  know,  and  pleasure  afterward.  Business  is  at  an 
end,  and  now  for  the  other  thing.  Well,  Lallie,  and 
what  do  you  think  of  your  lovely  niece  to-night?  She 
laughs  again  saucily,  and  pats  Miss  Maturin's  shoulder. 
"Did  I  look  sufficiently  forlorn?"  she  asks,  gayly. 

"  It  was  horrible!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  huskily.  "  You 
must  never  do  it  again,  child — never!  Do  you  hear?" 

"  Why,  my  success  then  has  been  a  genuine  one!"  ex- 
claims Dolores,  with  a  bright  laugh.  "  I  have  positively 
impressed  you." 

"  You  are  really  happy,  darling,"  asks  Miss  Maturin, 
with  curious  irrelevance,  tightening  her  hand  convulsively 
upon  the  girl's  fingers — "quite  happy?  There  is  noth- 
ing— no  thought  or  fear  of  coming  evil — no — " 

"Really  happy,  Lallie,"  says  Dolores,  turning  her  little 
hand,  palm  upward,  within  Miss  Maturin's,  and  giving 
her  a  loving  squeeze.  "I  never  felt  so  sure  of  being 
happy  as  I  do  to-night.  The  very  sweetest  luck  will 
attend  me;  all  good  sprites  are  near  me;  I  feel  it — I  know 
it!"  She  turns  a  radiant  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and  a 
latgh  of  pure  youth  »&djmio£iQ£nt  issues  from  her  lip?. 


170  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Vyner,"  she  cries,  catching  sight  of  him 
"you  again i  When  is  the  dancing  to  commence?" 

""Almost  directly.  They  are  giving  a  few  minutes 
to  Lady  Gertrude  to  change  her  dress;  she  was  in  the  last 
tableau.  How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Drummond?  Charming 
affair  all  through,  wasn't  it?" 

"  I  am  not  a  judge,  perhaps,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond. 
solemnly,  who,  with  her  friend  and  rather  doubtful  allyj 
Mrs.  Dovedale,  has  drawn  close  to  where  he  is  standing. 
"But,  to  my  eyes,  the  exhibition  of  to-night  vra* 
extremely  painful." 

"  You — you  forgot  your  glasses?"  asks  Vyner,  a  little 
uncertainly,  perhaps,  but  with  unquestionable  politeness 
and  the  gentlest  regret. 

"It  was  no  question  of  glasses,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond, 
reddening  rather  furiously.  "  I  can  see  perfectly,  Mr. 
Vyner,  without  the  aid  of  art,  a  fact  I  never  had  reason 
to  deplore  until  to-night." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  something  occurred  suffi- 
ciently distressing  to  make  you  wish  yourself  blind?" 

"  Perhaps  that  is  putting  it  a  little  strongly,"  objects 
Mrs.  Drummond;  "but  this  much  I  can  say,  that,  when 
1  find  myself  forced  to  witness  the  forward  conduct  of 
—of  people  with  whom  I  am  on  speaking  terms,  and  of 
whom  I  would  wish  to  have  a  better  opinion,  I  confess  it 
both  shocks  and  grieves  me." 

"  People!"  echoes  Mr.  Vyner,  anxiously.  "  How  many 
of  them?  Have  the  whole  lot  of  us  sunk  in  your  esteem? 
Must  I  too  consider  myself  undone?  '  Forward,'  did  yoq 
say?  Oh,  I  hope  I  wasn't  'forward'!" 

"When  the  word  *  people '  escaped  me,  I  spoke  unad- 
visedly/' corrects  Mrs.  Drummond,  still  on  the  solemn 
tack;  "  though  it  was  through  a  kindly  desire  to  shield 
one  of  whom  we  all  know  that  I  used  it.  But  sometimes 
kindness  is  mistaken.  Had  I  given  utterance  to  the  word 
'person,'  I  should  have  been  nearer  my  real  meaning." 

"  Oh,  yes,  much  nearer!"  murmurs  Mrs.  Dovedale, 
•weetly. 

"  Bless  me,  this  is  terrible!"  exclaims  Vyner.  "  I  had  no 
idea  Lady  Gertrude  had  so  offended  against  good  taste  aa 
to  convey  to  her  audience  the  impression  of  being  bold  and. 
forward!  Forward?  Yes;  that  was  the  word,  I  think. 
I  am  sure,  Mrs.  Drummond,  were  the  Duchess  to  heaf 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  171 

on  disapproved  of  her  daughter's  conduct,  she  would 


"  Grossly  offended — with  Lady  Gertrude, "  puts  in  Mrs. 
Dovedale  mildly  from  behind  her  fan. 

"Oh,  pray  hushl"  entreats  Mrs.  Drummond,  looking 
fearfully  around  her — Mr.  Vyner's  tone  has  been  in  no 
wise  subdued.  "  How  could  you  imagine  I  was  alluding  to 
dear  Lady  Gertrude,  who  is  in  all  respects  what  a  gentle- 
woman should  be?  No;  I  was  speaking  of  Miss  Ponsonby. 
Her  dress,  her  unrnaidenly  attitudes,  her  evident  and  very 
distressing  craving  for  admiration,  her  boldness  and 
effrontery,  all  pained  me  to  the  last  degree!" 

"  We  could  all  see  that,"  murmurs  her  friend,  in  her 
soft  childish  treble.  "  We  all  noticed  your  open  distress 
and  your  brave  efforts  to  conceal  it — efforts  so  great  as  to 
make  you  look  at  times  almost  out  of  temper.  You  see 
how  one  suffers  for  one's  good  actions!  But,  then,  fortu- 
nately, we  all  know  you,"  says  Mrs.  Dovedale,  with  a 
sweet  little  caressing  smile,  "and  exactly  how  you  felt.** 

"  How  grieved  Miss  Ponsonby  would  be  were  she  to 
hear  this!"  says  Vyner,  pathetically,  "Your  opinion, 
Mrs.  Drummond,  weighs  with  her  so  much  that  an  ad- 
verse word  from  you  would,  I  think,  cause  her  to  foel 
despair." 

The  concern  upon  his  face  is  deep  and  earnest,  jet 
Mrs.  Dovedale's  infantile  glance,  turning  quickly  upsn 
him,  grows  sharp. 

"  I  am  sure  you  agree  with  all  I  have  said,"  goes  on 
Mrs.  Drummond  heavily — "you  who  so  well  know  what  a 
true  lady  should  be  " — here  she  casts  a  speaking  glance  at 
a  distant  corner,  where  stands  the  florid  and  somewhat 
underdressed  Georgina — "  can  not  fail  to  understand  my 
sentiments." 

"  1  do  indeed  fully  understand  them,"  says  Vyner  sym- 
pathetically. 

"And  then  that  undisguised  flirtation  with  Captain 
Grevillel"  continues  Mrs.  Drummond,  warming  to  her 
work,  and  turning  up  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with  quite  a 
lamentable  display  of  pious  grief.  Now  or  never,  she  de- 
cides hurriedly,  is  the  time  given  her  to  put  an  end  forever 
to  Audrey's  interference  with  her  plan  of  making  Georgina 
Mrs.  Vyner.  Now  or  never!  She  braces  herself  afresh. 
"  Ah,  how  immodest,  how  8*lf-<*mfident  was  that  wretched 


172  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

girl's  conduct  all  this  evening!  I  am  sure  I  most  sincerely 
pity  poor  Lady  Bouverie!  " 

"Anything  wrong  with  her?"  asks  Vyner,  changing 
his  glass  from  one  eye  to  the  other,  and  regarding  Mrs. 
Druminond  with  what  seems  to  her  like  growing  anxiety. 

"Everything,  when  she  is  compelled  to  own  that  girl 
as  her  niece.  There  is  nothing  in  such  bad  taste  as  a 
flirtation  carried  on  before  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

"  You  would  recommend  one,  then,  carried  on  behind 
its  back?  Oh,  fy,  Mrs.  Drummond,"  exclaims  Vyner 
lightly — "such  sentiments  from  you.  Does  Miss  Drum- 
mond'share  them?" 

"  Yon  at  least,  I  think,  understand  my  sweet  girl,"  says 
the  "sweet  girl's"  mother,  with  gentle  reproach.  "She 
indeed  possesses  a  soul  that  lifts  her  far  above  all  such  sad 
frivolities.  To  trifle  with  a  human  heart  is  out  of  her 
power." 

"  Oh,  quite! "  acquiesces  little  Mrs.  Dovedale,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  To  enslave  a  man,  to  keep  him  chained  to 
her  side  for  an  entire  evening,  as  others  can,  is  a  thing 
*ht3  could  not  do!" 

"And  so  you  think  Miss  Ponsonby  is  trying  to  break 
young  Grevile's  heart?"  asks  Vyner,  laughing. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  trying  to  entrap  the  infatuated 
young  man  into  a  marriage,"  returns  Mrs.  Drummond, 
spitefully.  "  He  is  heir  to  a  baronetcy,  and  is  an  excellent 
parti  in  every  way.  Her  open  encouragement  is  shame- 
ful!" 

''  They  have  been  together  a  good  deal,  certainly,"  hes- 
itates Mrs.  Dovedale,  mildly;  "but  I  was  standing  near 
fchem  for  a  long  time,  and  their  conversation  was  entirely 
about  the  play  and  the  costumes." 

"  That  is  really  nothing,"  says  Vyner,  with  a  genial 
smile.  "  I  once  knew  a  fellow  who  was  talking  to  a  girl 
about  asparagus,  when  suddenly  he  turned  and  proposed 
to  her.  So  you  see  you  never  can  tell." 

"  Well,  to  me  it  is  a  most  melancholy  spectacle  to  see  a 
young  woman  evince  such  an  ardent  desire  for  adulation," 
sighs  Mrs.  DrumBtiond,  with  marked  Christianity.  She 
looks  quite  sorry  for  the  benighted  object  of  her  remarks; 
thus  she  lays  a  thin  coating  of  religious  veneer  over  the 
raging  vindictiveness  beneuth.  "  Now,  Georgina  ig  m 
different!"  she  says. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  Trne,  true,"  agrees  Vyner,  eagerly,  with  a  tender 
glance  at  the  distant  fair  one.  "I  could  hardly  imagine 
any  two  people  so  utterly  dissimilar." 

Mrs.  Dovedale  looks  at  him. 

"  Yes;  I  have  many  things  for  which  to  be  grateful," 
says  Mrs.  Drummoud,  meekly.  "  My  Georgina  is  so 
gentle,  so  retiring;  she  claims  nothing;  she  does  not  put 
herself  forward  in  aoy  way.  Her  very  dearest  desires  she 
leaves  for  time  to  grant." 

"  She  does  indeed  leave  much  to  be  desired,"  says  Vyn'fcr, 
with  a  smile  so  affectionate,  so  almost  filial,  as  to  allay 
the  suspicions  that  this  extraordinary  speech  has  very  nat- 
urally aroused  in  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Drummond. 

But  Mrs.  Dovedale's  innocent  lips  widen,  and  her  eyes 
light  up  marvelously. 

"What  a  funny  little  speech!"  she  says,  artlessly;  a'ad 
•he  makes  a  mental  note  of  the  "funny  speech,"  to  be 
retailed  again  by  and  by  to  her  friend,  with  kindly  com- 
ments thereupon." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  dear  Mr.  Vyner,  to  find  you  agree  with 
me  in  my  estimate  of  Miss  Ponsonby,"  says  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond pleasantly.  "  A  fast  girl  is  my  abhorrence." 

"Ah,  here  comes  your  abhorrence!"  exclaims  Vyr>er 
cheerfully,  as  Audrey,  a  lovely  creature  in  her  white-ard- 
gold  draperies,  sweeps  slowly  up  to  them. 

Mrs.  Drummond  starts  perceptibly;  her  color  changes, 
and  she  tries  with  a  violent  effort  to  bring  the  ghastly 
semblance  of  a  smile  to  her  lips.  After  all,  this  objection- 
able girl  is  Lady  Bouverie's  niece,  and  it  will  not  do  to 
offend  her  hopelessly.  She  smiles  therefore  and  puts  out 
her  hand,  which  Audrey  manages  not  to  see,  acknowl- 
edging her  presence  only  by  a  bow  as  coldly  graceful  as  it 
is  disdainful. 

Mrs.  Drummond,  discouraged,  falls  back  a  little;  but 
Mrs.  Dovedale,  who  is  all  smiles  and  pretty  glances, 
presses  forward. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  how  you  have  charmed  us  all,  Misi 
Ponsonby,"  she  snys  airily — "Mrs.  Drummond  especially. 
You  really  should  have  prepared  us  for  such  perfect 
work;  and  you  and  Captain — Captain — ah,  what  is  it?— 
I  mean  your  lover,  your" — with  childish  confusion — 
"your  stage  lover,  of  course — were  infinitely  superior  to 
til  the  rest  of  the  actors.  How  stupid  I  am  about  re< 


174  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

membering  names!"  —  with  r  smile  replete  with  corcrt 
insolence.  "  It  takes  me  quite  a  long,  long  time  to  learn 
them." 

"  It  takes  some  people  a  long,  long  time  to  learn  any= 
thing,"  replies  Audrey,  with  a  pale  smile  equally  inso- 
lent, "even  common  manners." 

She  half  raises  her  drowsy  lids  and  regards  the  rector's 
wife  as  one  might  a  person  of  very  inferior  quality  in- 
deed. Mrs.  Dovedale  quails  beneath  that  glance,  and, 
an  affectation  of  seeking  somebody,  fades  slowly 


Then  Audrey  turns  to  Vyner. 

"  And  so  you  spend  your  time,"  she  says  with  a  con- 
temptuous shrug  of  her  white  shoulders,  "with  such 
people  as  those!  You  find  them  amusing?" 

"  Intensely  so  —  Mrs.  Drummond  more  especially." 

"  One  would,  of  course,"  says  Audrey,  curling  her  lip. 
"  Was  she  giving  you  a  list  of  Georgina's  virtues?" 

"  Not  all  the  time." 

"  Then  she  was  giving  you  a  list  of  my  vices?" 

"They  tell  one  it  is  rash  to  contradict  a  woman  twice," 
replied  Vyner,  calmly. 

"  Which  means  I  guessed  correctly.  And  yon  listened 
to  her?  You  found  such  talk  amusing?" 

"Good,  honest  vituperation  is  interesting  at  all  times; 
and,  to  do  Georgina's  mother  justice,  she  can  *  give  the 
bastinado  with  her  tongue.'  Is  that  Mrs.  Wemyss  over 
there?  What  a  charming  laugh  she  has!  Shall  we  join 
her?" 

"  As  you  will  "  —  indifferently;  then  her  whole  face 
changes.  "Ah,  you,  Captain  Greville?"  she  says,  smil- 
ing, and  flushing  faintly  as  she  turns  to  Greville,  who  hat 
just  come  up  to  her  with  a  programme  in  his  hand. 

"  For  you,"  he  says,  giving  it  to  her.  "And  now  fflO; 
your  trusty  messenger's  reward—the  first  waltz?" 

She  smiles  an  acquiescence. 

"  And  the  second  —  and  —  " 

"Don't  be  greedy,"  interposes  she  softly.  "Let  ns 
put  a  full  stop  after  the  second  —  for  the  present  at  least. 
I  am  going  now  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Wemyss." 

"  Why,  so  I  think  sm  II"  says  Greville,  laughing  and 
accompanying  her  and  Vvnar  as  tkey  cross  the  room  to 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  17ft 

where  Mrs.  \Vemyss,  Bruno  Bouverie,  and  a  rather 
oonsolato  Sir  Chicksy  are  standing. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"WHAT  a  day  we're  'aving!"  says  Bruno,  as  they  come 
np.  "  Audrey,  my  congratulations — though  poor,  they 
are  sincere.  But  every  one  makes  allowance  for  my  in- 
tellectual defects." 

"  Mrs.  Drummond  was  delighted  with  you,"  laughi 
Mrs.  Wemyss  mischievously,  giving  Audrey's  hand  a  sur- 
reptitious squeeze.  Perliaps  she  is  the  one  woman  in  the 
world  whom  Audrey's  cold  manner  has  never  repelled, 
"  Oh,  the  joy  in  the  dear  old  lady's  eye  when  your  suc- 
cess was  assured,  and  when  the  Duke  flung  you  that  out- 
rageous bouquet!  Her  smile  was  a  perfect  sunbeam." 

"  So  warm  that  it  withered  all  around, "says  Vyner. 

"  By  the  bye,  has  any  one  seen  the  fair  Georgina?"  asks 
Bruno. 

"  I  did.  I  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  her;  but  I  was 
afraid  to  look  again,"  says  Vyner. 

"  She  was  with  Bob  Haverly,"  puts  in  Sir  Chicksy,  in 
a  moody  tone.  He  was  in  a  low  state,  indeed,  before 
Audrey  arrived  with  Captain  Greville;  but  now  he  looks 
murderous. 

"  In  default  of  a  better,"  says  Bruno.  "  Poor  stagger- 
ing Bob!  I  hope  he  was  sober." 

"  I  hope  he  wasn't,"  remarks  Vyner.  "  If  slightly  in- 
distinct in  yiews  and  manners,  he  would  not  so  entirely 
realize  the  misery  of  the  situation." 

"  Ah,  true!  After  all,  you  are  a  better  friend  to  him 
than  I  am.  A  discreet  intoxication  might  help  him 
through.  A  small  matter,  and  really  no  trouble  to  him." 

"  Little  things  make  up  the  sum  of  life,"  says  Mrs. 
Wemyss  solemnly,  upon  which  they  all  laugh.  "  There 
will  b«  a  flower,  a  kiss,  a  vacant  seat,  a  temporary  aberra- 
tion like  our  poor  Bob's;  and  there  is  no  knowing  what 
will  come  of  it  all." 

"  There  is  no  knowing  what  will  come  of  anything!" 
groans  Sir  Chicksy  from  out  the  utmost  gloom.  This 
remarkable  speech  is  so  obscure  as  to  call  for  no  answer 
from  any  man. 


176  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  asks  Mrs.  Wemysa. 
in  a  low  voice,  turning  to  Vyner.  "  He  has  been  in  quite 
a  desperate  state  for  the  last  hour.  Was  there  ever  so 
miserable  a  creature?  It  isn't  toothache,  or  earache,  or 
neuralgia,  because  I  suggested  them  all,  and  got  three 
'  Noes '  for  answer,  and  not  another  syllable  thrown  in 
even  for  friendship's  sake.  What  can  it  be?" 

"  It  is  Greville — '  the  forward  youth  that  would  ap- 
pear.' And  what  is  friendship  beside  jealousy?  A  paltry 
shadow!  Poor  Sir  Chicksy!  If  he  has  pinned  his  faith 
to  Miss  Ponsonby,  I  doubt  there  is  trouble  before  him. 
However,  'sorrow  may  endure  for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh 
in  the  morning,'  that  is  a  fair  division,  is  it  not?  And, 
after  all,  one  can't  be  always  on  the  grin,  at  least,  most  of 
us  can't.  Few" — with  a  smile — "are  as  triumphant 
over  their  jars  and  frets  as  Bruno." 

"  '  He  hath  indeed  a  merry  note,' "  quotes  Mrs.  Wemyss, 
smiling.  It  is  a  pleasant  smile,  warmed  by  a  delicate 
blush. 

"Ah,  there  go  the  fiddles!"  exclaims  Greville,  turning 
eagerly  to  Audrey. 

"  Then  there  goes  my  last  chance  of  happiness,"  says 
Vyner.  "Now  to  approach  my  partner  with  the  smiling 
face  that  hides  the  breaking  heart.  I've  been  trying  not 
to  see  her  for  the  last  ten  minutes;  but  I  experienced  a 
considerable  difficulty  in  the  effort  since  I  discovered  her 
whereabouts." 
"  Where  is  she?" 

"  Glaring  at  me  from  the  opposite  wall.  See  her?  Big 
bony  girl  in  gridelin  gown." 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  do  it  for?"  asks  Bruno  in 
open  amazement. 

"Let  in  for  it,  of  course.  But  I  sha'n't  forget  my  debt 
to  her  chaperon.  Yet,  after  all  it  might  be  worse;  it 
might  be  Georgina." 

"  Miss  Ponsonby,"  says  Sir  Chicksy,  coming  awkwardly 
to  the  front,  "may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  this?" 
"  I  am  engaged  for  it  unfortunately." 
"The  next  then?" 

"  Is  not  a  waltz;  and  I  never  dance  anything  else." 
"  The  next  waltz  then?" — desperately. 
"Is  promised  also/* 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  177 

"  Ah !"  says  poor  Sir  Chicksy,  falling  back  discouraged, 
and  casting  a  withering  glance  at  the  successful  Qreville. 

Perhaps  Audrey  feels  for  him;  perhaps  it  is  that  she 
finds  it  impossible,  like  most  women,  to  loosen  her  hold 
on  a  slave.  At  all  events,  she  leans  a  little  toward  him, 
and  beckons  him  once  more  to  her  side  with  a  slight 
wave  of  her  fan. 

"  Would  the  third  be  of  any  use  to  you?"  she  asks 
coldly,  but  with  one  of  her  rare  smiles.  "Yes?  Then 
take  it.  By  the  bye  " — with  a  sudden  determination  to 
strengthen  his  chains,  or  else  to  throw  off  her  power  to 
the  others — "  how  is  it  that  you,  of  all  my  acquaintances, 
have  been  the  only  one  to  give  me  no  pretty  compliment 
to-night?" 

"  I  don't  suppose  anything  I  could  say  would  be  pretty," 
sighs  Sir  Chicksy  despondently. 

"Try,"  says  Vyner,  the  finest  encouragement  in  his 
tone. 

"  I  have  tried  " — gloomily — "and  I  might  as  well  have 
let  it  alone.  She  forgets  all  about  it.  It's  only  natural 
she  should,  you  know;  I'm  not  one  to  be  remembered. 
But,  as  it  happens,  I  was  one  of  the  very  first  to  con- 
gratulate her  when  she  came  off  the  stage." 

"  Ah,  so  you  were!"  says  Audrey  lightly.  "  I  forget  now 
what  it  was  yon  said;  but  I  know  you  were  very  kind." 

"Kind!"  repeats  the  infatuated  youth,  with  bitterest 
self-disdain.  "  Who  am  I  that  I  should  presume  to  be 
kind  to  you?  I'm  glad  you  have  forgotten  all  about  it. 
*  My  words  that  would  praise  thee  are  impotent  things."' 

"Good  gracious,  Chaucer!  Eecollect  yourself!"  ex- 
claims Bruno,  giving  him  a  warning  nudge  and  a  shocked 
glance.  "  However  badly  you  may  feel,  learn  to  restrain 
yourself;  and,  at  all  events,  never  give  way  to  bad 
language!" 

r<  Eh?"  says  Sir  Chicksy,  in  a  stupefied  tone. 

"To  say  'impudent  things'  to  Miss  Ponsonby!  My 
dear  fellow,  what  madness!  I  really  can't  see  my  way  to 
the  end  of  this  sad  affair." 

"I  didn't  say  that!"  exclaims  Sir  Chicksy,  with  wild 

wrath,  growing  more  and  more  desperate  as  he  sees  his 

idol   disappear   in   the  distance  with  the  more  favored 

Greville.     "  Nothing  of  the  sortl    The  word  I  used  was 

impotent 'P* 


178  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  Very  impudent,"  persists  Bouverie  gravely.  "  As 
Miss  Ponsonby's  near  relative,  I  must  ask  you  to  with- 
draw it — to  apologize — to — " 

"  Oh,  go  it!"  cries  Sir  Ohicksy,  hysterically.  "  I'm  not 
bad  enough  as  it  is,  I  suppose,  that  you  must  try  to  mad- 
den me!  But  I'll  have  satisfaction  from  somebody;  F1J 
have  it  out  of  one  of  you  for  this!  I'll  have  my  revenge, 
or—" 

Here  his  knee-joints  coming  in  contact  with  the  sharp 
edge  of  an  ottoman,  he  perforce  gives  way  and  sinks 
upon  it. 

"A  seat,"  says  Bruno,  finishing  his  sentence  for  him. 
"Well,  it  is  the  better  thing  of  the  two;  though  how  you 
presume  to  talk  of  vengeance  is — " 

"  Bruno,  be  silent,"  interposes  Mrs.  Wemyss,  in  a  low 
tone,  but  with  authority.  "You  are  really  too  bad.  Let 
the  poor  boy  alone.  Between  you  all,  you  will  drive  him 
out  of  his  mind." 

"  His  what?"  asks  Vyner,  mildly. 

"  Have  you  forgotten,  Mr.  Vyner,"  says  Mrs.  "Wemyss 
severely,  "  that  your  gaunt  partner  is  awaiting  you?" 

"No;  I  was  remembering  it  all  the  time,"  returns  Mr. 
Vyner,  sweetly.  "  I  am  helping  her  to  a  perfect  frame 
of  mind.  To  possess  one's  soul  in  patience  is  a  rare  merit. 
I  think  however  she  has  now  possessed  it  long  enough  in 
that  state,  and  I  fly  to  her." 

"For  me,"  said  Bruno — "am  I  to  understand  that  you 
forbid  me  speech?  am  I  to  hear  my  own  cousin  cruelly  in- 
sulted, and  take  no  steps  to  punish  the  offender?" 

"  You  are  to  cease  teasing  that  boy." 

"  Very  good;  I  sha'n't  play  any  more,"  says  Bruno,  rising 
with  an  injured  front.  "  And  for  the  future,  Mrs.  Wem- 
yss, you  will  be  kind  enough  to  remember  that  we  are 
not  upon  speaking  terms." 

"  Oh  that  I  might  dare  to  hope  it!"  exclaims  she,  laugh- 
ing, and  turning  to  seat  herself  beside  the  disconsolate 
baronet.  "  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?"  murmurs 
she  archly.  "  Anything  the  matter  that  I  may  hear?" 

"  Matter!"  cries  the  poor  fool,  something  that  is  almost 
an  expression  coming  into  his  face.  "Everything's  the 
matter!  It  is  all  up  with  me  and — and  her!  I  don't 
mind  about  anything  else;  that  ass  Bouverie  doesn't 
with  mel  He  is  an  ass,  isn't  he?" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  179 

"The  greatest  I  know!"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  with  satis- 
factory emphasis,  and  in  a  tone  mischievously  distinct, 
Bouverie  being  within  hearing  distance,  and  of  course 
listening  to  every  word  that  falls  from  his  "  lady's  "  lips, 
as  a  true  lover  should. 

"  But,  oh,  Mrs.  Wemyss,  how  I  love  that  peerless  creat- 
ure!" goes  on  Sir  Chicksy,  tearfully.  "And  I'm  nothiu' 
to  her — nothin'!  Ah,  there  lies  the  sting!  I'm  less  that 
the  dust  beneath  her  feet!  I  wish,"  cries  Sir  Chicksy,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  tragical  sorrow,  "  that  I  was  the  dust 
beneath  her  feet;  anyhow,  I  could  touch  her  then!  I 
could  cling  to  her  shoe;  an' — an'  she'd  have  to  carry  me 
along  with  her  wherever  she  went!" 

There  is  a  suspiciously  smothered  sound  somewhere 
near;  but,  when  Mrs.  Wemyss  glances  in  its  direction, 
Mr.  Bouverie  is  to  be  seen  plainly  wrapped  in  happy 
thoughts  of  his  own,  and  is  bowing  and  smiling  in  a  most 
affable  manner  to  somebody  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
It  is  a  crowded  end,  and,  of  course,  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  single  out  the  fortunate  object  of  his  attentions. 

"  Mr.  Bouverie,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  with  ominous 
mildness,  "  to-night's  theatricals  seem  to  have  got  into 
your  head.  When  you  have  ceased  to  enact  the  part  of  a 
nodding  mandarin  to  a  purely  imaginary  audience,  I  shall 

be  glad  if  you  will  take  me  to  the  next  room." 

******* 

Two  hours  are  as  nothing  when  one  is  young  and  engaged 
for  every  dance  before  the  fiddles  have  well  got  through 
their  first  dismal  tuning.  To  Audrey,  still  flushed  with 
her  great  triumph,  they  are  as  rare  moments  that  fly  by 
her  fraught  with  a  gay  intoxication. 

She  has  laughed,  with  a  gayety.  a  freedom  from  con- 
straint strange  to  her.  Born  with  a  spirit  unsuited  to 
poverty,  she  has  drifted  year  by  year  into  a  state  of  feeling, 
false  and  imbittered;  that  has  rendered  most  people  dis 
tasteful,  or,  at  the  best,  objects  of  suspicion  in  her  eyes. 
Only  her  "  dad,"  her  best-beloved,  is  entirely  without 
fault  in  her  sight. 

To-night,  however,  the  unwonted  excitement  of  an  as- 
sured success  has  raised  her  above  her  lower  nature.  Her 
enjoyment  of  the  passing  hour  is  not  forced;  she  enters 
into  the  spirit  of  it  with  an  eagerness  that  would  have 
surprised  even  herself  had  ihe  suured,  time  to  Uiink  of  it. 


180  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

and  that  delights  her  "dad,"  who,  dragged  from  his  se- 
clusion and  his  book  to  witness  her  triumph,  has  been 
more  than  rewarded  by  the  smiles  and  blushes  he  has  seen 
mantling  her  beautiful  face. 

She  has  perhaps  danced  rather  more  than  is  correct 
with  Captain  Greville,  and  has  let  the  world  see  in  a 
somewhat  reckless  fashion  how  abject  is  his  submission. 

"  My  dance,  1  think,"  says  Vyner,  going  up  to  her  a 
little  before  supper. 

"Is  it?"  She  has  been  smiling  prettily  at  Captain 
Greville  the  moment  before;  but,  as  she  answers  Vyner, 
her  smile  fades,  and  the  old,  tired,  listless,  discontented 
expression  returns  to  her.  "Let  us  not  dance  it  then! 
Is  there  no  place  where  one  can  sit  it  out?  " 

"  More  than  I  need  recount,"  replies  Vyner,  with  a 
Blight  shrug.  ' '  Let  me  make  you  wise  as  to  one  of  them. 
And  so  you  have  at  last  known  happiness!"  he  says  to 
her  presently  when  they  are  seated  in  a  little  flowered 
recess,  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  dying  daphnes.  A 
colored  lamp,  faintly  lighted,  sheds  a  pale  crimson  glow 
above  their  heads. 

"  It  has  been  a  better  evening  than  most,"  returns  she 
indifferently. 

"Until  now,  you  would  say,"  retorts  he,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "  Well,  endure  me  for  a  while,  if  you  can,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  appearances." 

"Appearances?"  She  colors  haughtily,  and  turns  her 
gaze  full  upon  him. 

"  You  see/'  says  Vyner,  shaking  from  the  gold  of  her 
gown  a  little  crawling  spider  that  has  dropped  from  the 
leaves  above  her,  and  taking  no  notice  of  her  question, 
'•'  if  admiration  and  conquest  be  happiness,  you  have 
gained  it  to-night." 

"I  am  no  happier  than  I  was  yesterday,"  returns  she 
•oldly.  "  But  you  spoke  of  appearances  just  now.  What 
was  it  you  wished  me  to  understand?" 

"That  it  is  not  altogether  well  to  dance  for  an  entire 
evening  with  one  man." 

"  You  are  as  careful  of  my  reputation  as  Lady  Bou- 
verie,"  says  she,  with  a  low  scornful  laugh.  Then  she 
ghuts  up  her  fan  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  angry  click,  and 
throws  it  upon  the  cushion  beside  her.  "  Did  you  notice 
hur  face  when  every  one  elseJTAS  congratulating  me?" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  181 

she  »ys.  "  It  was  a  picture!  It  told  its  own  story. 
What  malicious  eyes  she  has!  I  wish  she  were  not  my 
father's  sister,  that  I  might  dare  to  offer  her  insolence  be- 
fore which  hers  to  me  would  sink  into  insignificance!" 

She  draws  her  breath  quickly,  and  her  lips  part.  There 
are,  he  thinks,  tears  in  her  dusky  eyes;  but  her  lashes  fall 
and  rise  so  swiftly  that  it  is  difficult  to  be  sure. 

"  You  exaggerate  her  feeling  toward  yon." 

"  Her  hatred,  you  would  say.  Is  it  not  a  strange  thing 
that  mere  poverty  should  breed  dislike?  She  can  not  for- 
give dad  in  that  he  was  born  without  that  lucky  silver  spoon. 
A  man  who  must  take  in  pupils  to  help  him  to  eke  out  his 
daily  bread  is  a  distressing  acquaintance  at  all  times;  and 
to  feel  that  such  a  man  is  her  brother  is  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  her."  Her  charming  voice  has  grown  impetuous, 
and  is  tinged  with  even  a  deeper  shade  of  mockery  than  is 
usual  to  it.  "  What  a  tiling  is  poverty!"  she  says. 

"  A  conquerable  thing,  however.  You  are  now,  I  should 
say,  in  a  fair  way  to  escape  its  thraldom.  Greville,  very 
properly,  has  fallen  in  love  with  you." 

"  Has  he?" 

"  Hasn't  he?  He  seemed  to  me  as  miserable  awhile 
since,  as  any  woman  could  possibly  desire." 

"  You  must  have  been  studying  him  very  closely." 

"  There  was  no  occasion  for  that.  He  wears  his  chains 
with  a  most  engaging  openness.  I  am  so  old  a  friend  of 
yours  that  I  suppose  I  may  make  myself  agreeable,  and 
ask  you  any  questions  I  please?  Tell  me,  then — you  mean 
to  marry  him?" 

She  hesitates.  The  color  fades  altogether,  and  she  grows 
a  little  pale  beneath  his  gaze. 

"  I  may,"  she  says,  at  last. 

"  You  may?  Surely  you  have  given  him  cause  to  think 
you  will." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  all  that  means!"  exclaims  she,  im- 
patintly,  giving  him  an  angry  half  glance.  "Are  a  few 
kind  words  and  a  smile  or  two  equivalent  to  an  accept- 
ance of  the  handkerchief  whenever  my  lord,  after  due 
deliberation,  may  choose  to  throw  it?  It  is  all  too  absurd. 
One  is  called  a  coquette  if  one  smiles  and  then  declines  to 
accept  a  man;  one  is  sneered  at  if  one  smiles  and  the  man 
fails  to  come  to  one's  feet.  I  am  tired  of  the  whole 
theory." 


183  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  There  has  not  been  much  '  due  deliberation '  on  the 
part  of  Greville." 

"  How  can  you  tell  that?" 

She  glances  at  him  keenly  for  a  moment  from  under  her 
long  lashes. 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  I  think  him  the  most 
ingenuous  youth  I  know.  He  wears  his  heart  upon  his 
«leeve." 

"For  me  to  peck  at?"  with  a  low  unmirthful  laugh. 
"  Am  I  then  indeed  a  bird  of  prey?  It  is  well  to  know 
how  I  stand  with  you.  And  so  I  owe  this  Captain  Greville 
some  return,  you  think." 

"  I  am  sure  he  counts  upon  your  acceptance." 

"That  may  be  so  indeed.  It  would  be  too  much  to 
expect  of  any  man  that  he  should  believe  a  woman  could 
reject  him! 

She  leans  back  in  her  seat,  and  lets  her  lids  droop  until 
her  eyes  are  altogether  hidden;  a  little  carelessly  sup- 
pressed smile  full  of  pretty  malice  curves  her  faultless 
lips. 

"  You  are  bitter! "  says  Vyner  slowly. 

He  has  not  once  removed  his  gaze  from  her  mocking 
downcast  face,  so  fair,  so  cold,  so  full  of  clashing  possi- 
bilities. 

"I  am  as  nature  made  me,"  returns  she. 

"Nature  should  be  congratulated;  you  are  indeed  a 
masterpiece. 

"  '  There  is  no  one  beside  thee  and  no  one  above  thee; 
Thou  standest  alone  as  the  nightingale  sings.'  " 

Miss  Ponsonby,  raising  her  white  lids  with  slow  grace, 
gazes  at  him  in  an  astonishment  half  feigned,  wholly 
scornful. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  to  utilize  your  time,"  she  says. 
"But  to  rehearse  to  me!  I  think  it  only  fair  you  should 
reveal  the  name  of  the  happy  being  for  whom  all  this 
rhapsody  is  really  meant." 

"  '  Some  other  time,  some  other  day,'"  quotes  Vyner, 
carelessly.  "  My  affairs  are  too  intricate  to  be  discussed 
all  in  one  moment.  Let  us  return  to  Greville.  A  mar- 
riage with  him  would  please  your  aunt.  You  complain  of 
her  coldness;  this  might  propitiate  her." 

"Pah!"  she  says.     "  What  a  stranger  I  am  to  you  in 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  183 

reality,  in  spite  of  the  years  that  bind  us!  Of  all  in  this 
world,  I  am  the  very  last  who  would  seek  to  propitiate 
Lady  Bouverie.  Be  assured  I  shall  not  marry  to  please 
her." 

"Whom,  then?" — bending  rather  eagerly  toward  her 
"'Dad?'" 

"  No  " — coldly — "  myself!  In  doing  that  I  shall  please 
dad,  too.  You  at  least  understand  him  sufficiently  tr 
know  I  speak  the  truth  when  I  say  that.  But,  as  to 
pleasing  Lady  Bouverie,  I  owe  her  too  many  little  elegant 
insults  to  be  on  her  side." 

"  Does  she  owe  you  nothing?" 

"Really,  1  don't  care  whether  she  does  or  not,"  says 
Audrey,  with  rather  undue  warmth.  "  Take  her  part 
as  much  as  ever  you  like;  I  expect  nothing  better  of  you. 
1  dare  say  she  is  the  most  estimable  of  her  sex,  and  that 
it  is  my  lamentable  want  of  taste  that  makes  me  think 
otherwise." 

"I  don't  take  her  part,"  says  Vyner,  losing  his  self- 
control,  so  far  as  to  let  an  angry  gleam  come  into  his  eyes. 
"  I  take  no  one's  part  for  that  matter." 

"  You  are  right.  There  is  nothing  so  safe  as  neutrality. 
True  wisdom  consists  in  looking  carefully  after  the  inter- 
ests of  number  one.  I  am  truly  wise." 

"  I  hope  so;  but  you  must  pardon  me  " — curtly — "  if  I 
confess  1  don't  think  so.  If  you  considered  Lady  Bou- 
Terie's  relationship  to  you  a  little  more  than  you  do,  ifc 
might,  I  think,  be  of  some  use  to  you." 

There  is  silence  for  a  very  short  minute;  and  then — 

"It  is  such  a  pity,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby  slowly,  "  that 
you  can  not  cure  yourself  of  that  shocking  habit  you  have 
of  lecturing  me.  If,  in  all  the  years  we  have  known  each 
other,  you  could  ever  once  congratulate  yourself  on  the 
certainty  that  yon  have  done  me  any  good  by  your  preach- 
ing, I  would  say  by  all  means  continue  it,  objectionablt 
though  it  be;  but  can  you?" 

"  No;  therefore  I  must  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Vyner. 
with  ill-suppressed  mortification,  "  whilst  feeling  that  my 
presumption  precludes  the  possibility  of  your  granting 
it."  Then,  in  a  moment  he  recovers  himself,  and  throw- 
ing himself  back  against  the  cushions,  laughs  a  little. 
"I  deserved  it,  didn\I,"  he  says  lightly,  "  to  rush  upoi 


184  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

my  fate  like  that?    But  how  little  mercy  there  is  in  you! 
I>o  you  know  I  dread  a  woman  without  a  heart?" 

"'So  do  I,"  with  a  little  shrug;  "  that  is  why  I  take 
such  care  of  mine;  I  can  tell  you  I  wouldn't  be  without 
it  for  the  world,  though  you  are  always  advising  me  to 
dispose  of  it  to  Sir  Chicksy  or  Captain  Greville,  or,  in- 
deed, it  doesn't  seem  to  matter  to  you  whom." 

"  You  mistake,"  says  Vyner  coolly;  "  when  I  did  so 
far  presume  as  to  offer  you  advice,  I  alluded  to  your  hand, 
not  your  heart.  For  my  own  part,  in  spite  of  your  words 
just  now,  I  do  not  believe  you  have  a  heart  at  all." 

"  Have  you?"  asks  she  quickly,  turning  to  him.  There 
is  an  angry  defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,"  with  a  chill  smile.  "  It  is  gone  from  me — lost 
— never  to  be  regained!" 

Silence  follows  upon  his  words*  They  seem  to  have 
established  even  a  greater  coldness,  a  deeper  chill  in  the 
conversation,  than  existed  before.  A  certain  sternness 
liad  come  into  Vyner'a  face,  which,  as  a  rule,  is  utterly 
foreign  to  it.  When  the  stillness  has  become  insupport- 
able, Audrey  by  an  effort  breaks  it. 

"  Your  advocacy  of  my  aunt  was  unfortunate,"  she  says 
quietly.  "  Let  us  never  discuss  her  again,  She  jars 
upon  me.  He:*  conduct  toward  me  is  that  of  an  enemy. 
She  keeps  her  eyes  upon  my  lightest  action." 

"  Why  should  your  actions  be  light?"  asks  he  slowly. 

When  his  words  are  beyond  recall,  he  would  gladly  have 
them  back  again;  but  it  is  then  too  late.  Her  very  lips 
grow  white  as  she  turns  her  face  with  a  startled  passion 
to  his.  For  one  second  she  looks  as  if  she  could  kill  him 
as  he  sits  there,  apparently  so  calm,  so  indifferent;  then 
an  anguished  sound  breaks  from  her,  a  sigh  that  grows 
into  a  hushed  sob  of  concentrated  anger. 

"You  mean — "  she  says,  in  a  choked  voice,  her  slender 
fingers  tightening  convulsively  upon  a  fold  of  her  white 
gown. 

It  is  too  late  for  retreat  or  apology. 

"  I  mean  that  I  saw  you  in  the  conservatory  half  an 
hour  ago,"  says  Vyner,  his  face  now  nearly  as  white  as 
hers. 

*'  Ton  are  a  spy!"  returns  she,  in  a  low  strange  voice. 

"I  am  not!"  says  Vyner,  with  a  quick  flush  and  a 
touch  of  dignity.  "  It  was  the  merest  chance — the 


DIGK'S    SWEETHEART.  185 

greatest  misfortune — and  I  was  there  for  a  moment  only 
But  he  was  kissing  your  hands — he  was  on  his  knees— I 
shall  never  forget  his  face!  And  yet  now  you  tell  me — 
you  give  me  to  understand  at  least — that  you  mean  noth- 
ing! What  am  I  to  think?  But  perhaps  you  only  lied  to 
me  as  women  will,  and  you  do  care  for  him?" 

He  lays  his  hand  roughly  upon  hers.  Every  vestige  of 
color  is  now  gone  from  his  face.  He  has  evidently  felt 
that  betise  of  his  more  than  he  knows. 

"I  did  not  lie!"  returns  she,  in  a  low  tone.  She  draws 
her  hand  from  his  and  turns  away  her  face. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  said — that,"  says  Vyner  presently.  He 
is  looking  moodily  upon  the  ground. 

"About  my  actions?  It  is  nothing."  A  rather  wan 
little  smile  curves  her  lips.  "  I  am  accustomed  to  hard 
speeches,"  she  says.  "And,  after  all,  *  sound  is  only 
broken  air ' — so  think  no  more  of  it." 

"  I  shall  never  cease  to  think  of  it  until  I  am  sure  I  have 
obtained  your  forgiveness." 

"  Be  sure  of  it  then.  Let  us  say  you  but  jested.  '  Life 
is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it.' '  She  laughs  in  a  tune- 
less way  that  is  very  mournful,  and  moves  her  head  from 
side  to  side  with  a  fretful  weary  gesture.  "Shall  we  re- 
turn the  ball-room?" 

She  half  rises  as  she  speaks;  but  he  detains  her. 

"  I  wonder  how  you  regard  me?"  he  says,  earnestly,  his 
hand  upon  her  arm.  "  As  a  friend — an  enemy?" 

"An  enemy?  No.  That  would  be  too  great  an  exer- 
tion. And,  besides  " — quickly — "  I  do  you  the  justice 
to  say  that  I  believe  you  aro  one  who  would  not  willfully 
or  of  a  set  purpose  injure  any  one." 

"As  a  friend  then?" 

"  Oh,  no  "—with  a  little  bitter  smile—"  not  that! 
Yon  do  not  love  me,  you  could  not  hate  me.  Sometimes 
lam  an  amusement  to  you;  but  always  yon  are  as  indif- 
ferent to  me  as — I  am  to  you." 

"  In  one  particular  you  wrong  me,"  says  Vyner,  drop- 
ping her  arm.  "  I  could  find  it  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  hate  you — at  times." 

She  laughs,  and  turns  toward  the  door  that  leads  into 
the  room  beyond.  The  sweet,  subtle  sound  of  the  dis- 
tant music  comes  to  them  on  the  scented  air,  soaring, 
dying,  thrilling  as  it  passes  them,  to  fade  away  amongst 


186  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

the  leaves  beyond.  No  human  voice  is  near  to  mm  its 
harmony  or  kill  the  sad  charm  of  it.  The  melancholy 
drip,  drip  of  a  small  fountain  blends  with  it.  rising  and 
fulling  with  it  in  gentlest  sympathy,  with  a  little  plain- 
tive sobbing,  sad,  but  pleasant  to  the  ear.  They  two  are 
as  much  alone  as  though  leagues,  not  paces,  separated 
them  from  a  laughing,  glittering  crowd — and  even  more 
apart  in  soul  than  in  body  are  they  from  each  other,  so 
strangely  do  their  spirits  jar,  so  wide  is  the  gulf  that 
yawns  between  her  heart  and  his. 

"You  are  rested?"  he  says,  following  her. 

"And  refreshed.  You  can  not  think  what  good  you 
have  done  me,"  returns  she,  glancing  at  him  with  a 
mocking  light  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  "To  sit  awhile  and 
listen  in  tranquil  silence  to  the  voice  of  friendship  is — " 

"  A  truce  to  all  that,"  interrupts  Vyner,  with  an  impa- 
tient wave  of  the  hand.  Then  he  comes  closer  to  her. 
"  And  so  you  really  don't  mean  to  marry  Greville?"  he 
says  calmly. 

"No" — carelessly.  "That  affecting  scene  you  wit- 
nessed in  the  conservatory  awhile  ago  meant  my  refusal." 

She  stoops  to  give  her  train  a  little  careful  set,  and 
then  moves  forward  into  the  more  brilliant  antechamber 
outside.  Having  gained  the  ball-room  and  an  anxiously 
expectant  partner,  sh«  tarns  and  dismisses  Vyner  with  a 
little  polished  inclination  of  her  haughty  head. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE  night  is  waning;  the  stars  are  growing  faint;  the 
sweet,  sweet  summer  dawn  is  near  at  hand.  In  the  per- 
fumed darkness  of  the  garden  the  lanterns  are  dying  out 
one  by  one.  Already  the  flower-laden  breezes  of  early 
morn  are  waking  midst  the  slumbering  leaves,  and, 
though  as  yet  "  the  stars  make  gold  of  all  the  air,"  a 
whisper  of  the  coming  birth  of  blessed  day  quivers  through 
garden  and  yew-bound  alley. 

"What  a  scene!"  says  Dolores,  in  alow  happy  voice. 
"  See  those  great  luminous  stars  up  there!  How  they 
gleam!  What  a  tremulous  beauty  is  theirs!  Oh,  how  I 
lore  the  night!" 

She  stretches  out  her  arm*  in  childish  admiration  to 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  187 

the  gentle  darkness;  with  all  the  chastened  rapture  of  a 
pure  spirit,  she  seems  to  drink  in  the  exquisite  loveliness 
around  her. 

"Naughty  child!"  says  her  lover  tenderly.  "How 
often  have  you  read  that  darkness  must  not  be  preferred 
to  light!" 

They  are  standing  alone  in  the  quiet  garden,  with  only 
the  drowsy  flowers  for  company  and  the  sanctity  of  the 
near  dawn  full  upon  them.  As  he  speaks  he  possesses 
himself  of  her  pretty  extended  arms,  and,  by  a  little  be- 
seeching movement,  induces  her  to  lay  them  round  his 
neck. 

<SI  will  have  you  love  nothing  but  me,"  he  says,  with 
fond,  foolish  jealousy. 

"'A  willful  man  will  have  his  way,'"  quotes  she 
prettily. 

"  Is  that  so.  Shall  I  have  mine?  I  shaVt  mind  being 
called  willful  if  such  an  end  be  gained."  He  presses  one 
little  delicate  pink  palm  to  his  lips,  and  then — "You 
have  been  happy  to-night?"  he  asks,  more  with  sure  hope 
in  his  tone  than  anxiety. 

"  Too  happy,"  says  Dolores,  with  a  bright  flush.  "  A 
little  while  since  some  thought  flashed  across  me,  and  I 
felt  afraid  of  it  all.  Why  should  the  world  give  me  only 
good,  a»d  to  others  so  much  misery?  What  am  I  that  I 
should  be  so  blessed  above  my  fellows?  See  " — running 
her  slender  fingers  with  a  loving,  lingering  touch  through 
his  hair — "  let  me  recount  my  riches.  I  have  you — you! 
That" — with  a  little  quickening  of  her  breath  and  a  rais- 
ing of  her  charming  face  to  his — "  means  everything; 
but,  besides,  how  many  other  joys  are  mine!" 

To  this  sweet  speech  he  makes  her  no  reply;  but  he 
lays  his  lips  upon  her  bonny  head  and  draws  her  yet  closer 
to  him. 

"  All  this,"  says  Dolores,  with  a  comprehensive  wave 
of  her  hand  to  the  moonlit  scenery  around,  "  reminds  me 
of  some  other  night  when  we  were  abroad — auntie  and  I. 
But  it  was  not  so  nice  a  night  as  this  " — rubbing  her 
cheek  softly  against  his — "because  you  were  not  in  it." 

"  I  hate  those  other  nights,"  says  Dick. 

"Oh,  no,  you  mustn't!  They  were  delicious  in  their 
own  way.  I  owe  them  nothing  but  the  very  sweetest 
memories." 


188  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Tell  rne,"  says  Dick — "if  I  wasn't  with  you  there 
there  wasn't  any  other  fellow,  was  there?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  often!" — with  a  merry  laugh.  "  What? 
Would  you  have  had  me  live  upon  a  desert  island,  or 
spring  into  life  full-grown,  say  yesterday?  We  knew 
many  people.  There  was  a  little  prince  auntie  specially 
affected,  and  he  came  with  us  everywhere;  but  there  was 
no  one,  there  is  no  one  in  all  the  world  like  you." 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  want  to  be  a  princess,"  says  he, 
moodily. 

"  I  wonder  I  didn't,"  retorts  she,  mischievously.  "  What 
a  pity  the  idea  never  entered  my  head  until  now,  when  y,ou 
put  it  there!  Poor  little  prince;  perhaps  he  is  still  un- 
married and  pining  for  me!" 

"  Dolores,  don't  talk  to  me  like  that!"  says  Bouverie, 
giving  her  an  angry  little  shake  that  would  hardly  have 
disturbed  the  repose  of  a  fly. 

"Then  don't  you  talk  to  me  like  that.  One  would  im- 
agine you  really  believed  it  would  be  a  finer  thing  for  a 
woman  to  be  a  princess  than  your  wife!" 

"  True.  How  absurdly  silly  of  me!"  says  Bouverie, 
with  a  laugh.  "My  excessive  modesty  is  a  positive 
affectation.  Oh,  love,  love,  to  think  you  will  really  be 
my  wife  some  day!  It  sounds  too  good  to  be  true.  There 
— never  mind  me;  I'll  say  that  it  is  not  too  good  if  you 
wish,  and  that  it  shall  be  true." 

"Hush!"  whispers  she,  with  a  sudden  vague  tremor  in 
her  voice.  "Do  not  be  so  entirely  sure.  How  can  we 
tell,  how  can  we  know,  what  lies  before  us?  It  is  un- 
lucky to  speak  with  such  a  boastful  certainty."  She 
shivers  a  little,  and  clings  to  him. 

"  I  am  sure,"  persists  he,  boldly,  "  nothing — unless  it 
be  death — can  come  between  us.  And  why  think  of 
death  on  such  a  night  as  this?  Think,  instead,  of  the 
happy  life  that  lies  before  us.  It  shall  be  as  beautiful, 
as  tranquil  as  this  scene  on  which  we  gaze.  Look  up 
and  think  of  the  eternal  stars  above  us,  and  remember 
that  our  love  is  eternal  even  as  they.  Now  what  shall 
part  us?" 

He  laughs  aloud,  and  kisses  her  with  a  triumphant  fer- 
vor. And  she  smiles  back  at  him  and  returns  his  caress, 
and  forgets  f,he  shadow  that  for  years  has  followed  on  her 
path. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  189 

"Now  tell  me  of  those  'other  nights/"  he  says,  gayly. 
•'  1  defy  them — I  no  longer  grudge  them  to  you.  Go  on!" 

"  The  telling  would  carry  us  into  another  week.  And 
just  now  only  a  flitting  vision  of  them  is  with  me.  Again 
I  seem  to  be  creeping  along  in  a  gaudy  gondola  beneath  a 
moon  that —  Pouf!  Even  that  sweet  thing  over  there," 
cries  she,  pointing  to  the  far  horizon  where  Diana,  pale 
and  spent,  is  preparing  to  lay  down  her  bow,  "  is  but  as 
'  water  unto  wine  '  compared  with  it!" 

"  When  you  talk  to  me  of  your  former  life,"  says  Bou- 
verie,  holding  her  somewhat  back  from  him  that  he  may 
the  better  look  into  those  mystic  eyes  of  hers  that  never 
cease  to  hold  their  charm  for  him,  "it  makes  me  marvel 
to  think  so  frail  a  creature  could  have  traveled  so  much 
and  so  far." 

"  It  was  a  strange  fancy  of  auntie's  to  keep  me  from 
my  native  land  until  I  was  quite  grown  up.  Perhaps  she 
thought  with  some  people  that  traveling  gives  the  most 
liberal  education  of  all." 

"I  dare  say.     And  she  is  right,  I  think." 

"She  is  always  right — yes.  And  indeed  I  loved  our 
wanderings.  The  skating  in  Vienna;  the  Alpine  climb- 
ing— oh,  how  auntie  hated  that! — the  Venice  sunsets; 
and  the  pretty  cooing  pigeons  on  the  piazza  of  St,  Mark.' 
I  used  to  feed  them  every  day,  and  they — do  you  know — 
they  came  to  know  me  quite,  and  would  strut  after  me 
tail  downward  whenever  I  appeared.  All,  the  yellow  sun- 
shine and  the  wonderful  gray  shadows,  they  all  return  to 
me — they  do  not  permit  me  to  forget!  To  me  Italy  is  a 
very  dream!  Dick" — laying  her  hand  beneath  his  chin 
— "  will  you  take  me  there  when  we  are  married?  Your 
— our  England  is  of  course  the  dearest  place  to  me;  but 
yet  I  do  want  to  see  my  Italy  again." 

"  When  shall  we  start?"  asks'Bouverie,  with  eager  ani- 
mation. 

"For  the  house?"  asks  she  demurely.  "  Indeed  you 
remind  me,  Mr.  Bouverie,  that  we  have  already  outstayed 
our  time,  and  that  our  absence  will  cause  comment. 
Come  then!" 

"*  At  a  touch  sweet  pleasure  melteth,'"  quotes  Dick 
rui.'fully.  "  I  had  forgotten  there  was  a  world  ir-doors. 
Wliat  a  pity  to  leave  this  glorious  light  for  the  more  glar- 
ing one  within!  Don't  let  us  gojn  yet." 


190  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"I  am  afraid  we  must." 

"Are  you  in  haste  to  leave  me?"  asks  he,  with  foolish 
reproach  in  his  tone. 

"Are  you  never  to  be  convinced?"  whispers  she. 

She  is  leaning  against  him,  gazing  up  at  him,  looking 
pale  as  the  petals  of  a  lily  in  the  soft  fading  moonlight — 
snch  an  exquisite  face,  warm  with  love's  light  and  pensive 
with  sweet  thoughts  born  more  of  Heaven  than  earth. 

With  a  heart  that  throbs  with  thankful  joy,  he  holdn 
her  to  him.  It  seems  so  strange  that  this  sweet  thing 
should  be  his  own,  her  life  at  least  half  his,  and  she  will- 
ing that  he  should  dedicate  ail  his  to  her.  There  is  a 
humbleness  about  his  devotion  that  perhaps,  unconsciously 
to  herself,  renders  him  even  dearer  to  her.  His  life  has 
been  purified,  rounded,  completely,  since  this  little  saint- 
like girl,  with  her  happy  childish  eyes,  has  crept  into  his 
heart. 

Still  and  more  silent  grows  the  hour.  Over  the  hill 
comes  the  slow  dawn,  with  dainty  tread. 

"  A  sense  of  heavy  harmonies 
Grows  011  the  growth  of  patient  night 
More  sweet  than  shapen  music  is." 

Bouverie,  turning  up  her  face,  looks  at  her  long  and 
earnestly.  Were  ever  eyes  and  soul  so  sweetly  matched? 
How  good!  how  pure! 

"  A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful, 
They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when  she  moved  1" 

"You  love  me?"  he  says,  presently,  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  the  nervous  passion  in  it  almost  hides  the  words. 
But  she  hears  him. 

"  With  all  my  soul,  sweetheart!"  she  answers  back, 
raising  her  head  till  all  the  shadowed  sweetness  of  her 
eyes  is  bare  to  him. 

"  I  envy  no  man  on  earth,"  he  says,  after  a  long  pause, 
lifting  her  soft  palms  and  laying  them  reverently,  one 
after  the  other,  against  his  lips. 

*'  And  I  no  woman,"  returns  she,  gravely. 

******* 

Still  with  the  happy  lamps  of  love  lighted  within  her 
beauteous  eyes,  Dolores  regains  one  of  the  reception-rooms, 
and,  finding  Mis?  Maturiti  thejre*  seated  on  a  cushioned 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  191 

lounge,  near  an  open  window,  she  goes  to  her,  and, 
leaning  over  her,  whispers  some  merry  nonsense  in  her 
ear. 

As  she  does  so,  she  attracts  the  attention  of  a  spare, 
elderly,  hungry-looking  little  man  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room,  the  same  man  whose  presence,  in  the  early  part 
of  the  evening,  so  unnerved  Miss  Maturin. 

He  is  sitting  beside  Lady  Bouverie,  whose  guest  and 
cousin  he  is,  and  has  been,  up  to  this,  engrossed  with  old 
family  topics.  But  now  his  mind  wanders;  his  eyes  con- 
centrate themselves  upon  the  tableau  in  the  distance — the 
pretty  girl  bending,  with  laughing  lips,  above  the  woman 
who  was  so  well  known  to  him  in  the  olden  days.  There 
is  something  about  the  fresh,  innocent  sweetness  of 
Dolores  that  draws  the  minds  of  most  to  her.  Unfort- 
unately, now  it  compels  the  admiration  of  Colonel 
Oswald.  Who  is  this  girl,  so  like,  yet  so  unlike — 

"See  that  girl  over  there?"  he  says  suddenly  to  Lady 
Bouverie.  "  She  reminds  me  so  strongly  of  some  one. 
Pretty  girl  who  posed  as  'Adversity,'  I  mean — just  novr 
talking  to  Miss  Maturin." 

"  Ah,  that  is  Miss  Lome!  Very  pretty  as  you  say, 
and  charming  as  well."  Lady  Bouverie's  tone  is  com- 
placent. She  smiles  her  one  smile,  which  at  its  best  is 
wintery,  and  looks  calmly  important.  "  She  is  Miss 
Maturin's  niece,  and  her  heiress.  Very  good  fortune — 
indeed  better  than  good — almost  colossal." 

"Miss  Maturin's  niece?"  repeats  Colonel  Oswald  very 
slowly,  very  much  as  though  he  disbelieves,  for  the  first 
time,  in  the  perfect  hearing  on  which  he  prides  himself. 

"Her  sister's  child.     Lovely  creature,  isn't  she?" 

"Ah,  I  had  no  idea  there  was  a  child!"  says  Colonel 
Oswald  thoughtfully.  "Dear  rue — bless  me!" 

He  seems  overcome  with  surprise.  He  puts  his  glass 
carefully  in  his  left  eye  and  examines  Dolores  minutely 
as  she  stands  over  there,  cairn  and  smiling,  a  world  of 
rapturous  content  in  her  innocent  face.  That  other  face 
that  he  remembers  through  her — was  it  fairer,  sweeter? 
The  man  caught  and  bound  by  age,  gazing  at  this  tender 
girl  just  entering  upon  the  unknown  sea  of  life,  seems 
wafted  backward,  as  by  an  impetuous  breeze,  to  the  glad 
young  years  when  love  was  ;dl  in  all  and  hope  meant  cer- 
tainty/ But  the  love  that  even  then  was  but  half-  wounded 


192  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

vanity  is  now  without  its  sting,  and  is  remembered  only 
as  a  curious  experience  never  to  be  forgotten. 

"You  knew  the  Maturing  perhaps?"  says  Lady  Bou- 
verie, with  unsympathetic  manner.  "Yes?  Oh,  there 
was  a  child,  of  course — Mrs.  Lome's  baby — that  pretty 
Dolores  over  there!" 

"  It  must  have  complicated  matters  a  good  deal,"  says 
Colonel  Oswald,  still  rather  dreamily.  "  Yes,  it  was  a 
sad  affair  altogether." 

"  Sad?"  Lady  Bouverie  searches  his  face  for  a  moment, 
and  then  arranges  his  thoughts  for  him.  "About  the 
poor  child  being  left  an  orphan  so  young?  Yes,  of  course, 
But  then  she  has  really  missed  so  little;  her  aunt's  care 
has  been  to  her  quite  that  of  a  mother." 

"  No  doubt,"  says  Colonel  Oswald,  with  a  little  acqui- 
escent bow.  He  seems  singularly  attracted  by  Dolores. 
"By  Jove!"  he  says  once  under  his  breath,  and  then 
aloud,  "her  name?  *  Lome'  I  think  you  said  it  was." 

"  Dolores  Lome." 

"  Dolores!  What  a  sad  name!  How  significant!  Poor 
girl,  poor  girl!  But  why  'Lome,'  I  wonder?" 

"  Why,  you  ridiculous  man,  because  it  was  her  father's 
of  course!"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  with  a  short  laugh. 

There  is  some  offense  in  her  laugh.     It  has  dawned 
upon  her  that  Colonel  Oswald  is  hardly  giving  to  her  con- 
versation the  undivided  attention  to  which  she  has  grow1 
accustomed. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  as  good  as  another,"  remarks  he. 

"  It  is  a  very  good  name  indeed,"  rejoins  Lady  Bouverie, 
now  distinctly  affronted.  "  The  Lornes  have  always  been 
good  people;  they  have  ranked  for  generations  with  the 
very  best  of  our  county  families.  And  Dolores,  as  you 
may  see,  is  thoroughly  well-bred." 

"A  beautiful  face  indeed!"  says  Oswald  thoughtfully. 
"But  to  see  her  here — here!  I  used  to  tell  myself  I  was 
too  old  to  be  surprised  at  anything;  but  this  is  just  the 
little  too  much!  And  the  Duchess,  who  is  so  very  exclus- 
ive!" He  has  fallen  into  a  muttering  tone,  and  Lady 
Bouverie  scarcely  follows  him.  Then  he  rouses  himself 
from  his  reverie.  "  How  old  is  she?"  he  asks  absently. 

"  You  forget  the  flight  of  time,"  says  Lady  Bouverie, 
nodding  her  head.  "  If  you  knew  her  when  a  baby,  no 
wonder  you  are  surprised  to  see  her  now  breaking  into 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  193 

womanhood.  The  past  seems  but  as  yesterday  to  you  and 
me  until  gome  little  fact  like  this  compels  us  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  truth.  She  will  make  a  lovely  woman.  Her 
age?  Seventeen  or  eighteen,  I  should  say — not  a  day 
more." 

"Ah,  that  would  he  about  the  time!"  remarks  Colonel 
Oswald.  All  his  carefully  cultivated  small-talk  seems  to 
have  deserted  him. 

"1  must  tell  you,"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  turning  to  him 
suddenly,  and  tupping  him  on  the  arm  with  her  fan  with 
an  elephantine  attempt  at  playfulness,  "  that  I  hope — I 
think —  Indeed — to  let  you  into  a  secret;  I  feel  sure 
there  is  something  between  her  and  Richard." 

If  she  has  complained  of  his  want  of  appreciation  of 
her  communications  before,  there  is  certainly  now  no 
longer  reason  why  she  should  do  so.  As  though  suddenly 
touched  by  an  electric  battery,  Colonel  Oswald  springs 
into  life  at  her  words,  and  gazes  at  her  in  blank  dismay. 

"  Yes,"  continues  she,  nodding  emphatically,  quite 
pleased  by  the  sensation  she  has  at  last  created;  "some 
day  I  hope  to  call  that  sweet  child  my  daughter-in-law. 
Only  to  such  an  old  friend  as  you  would  I  confide  this 
hope,  because  as  yet  she  has  been  very  modestly  reticent; 
but  I  have  little  doubt  the  affair  has  actually  arranged 
itself." 

Colonel  Oswald,  straightening  himself  from  his  loung- 
ing position,  gazes  at  her  with  horrified  eyes.  An  expres- 
sion not  permissible,  and,  fortunately,  too  low  to  be 
heard,  passes  his  lips;  it  is  the  outcome  of  an  agitation 
not  to  be  suppressed.  The  pride  of  birth  is  strong  with 
him,  and  this  woman  is  his  cousin. 

"  My  dear  madam,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?" 
he  says  at  last,  with  quite  a  wonderful  politeness,  con- 
•idering  the  state  of  his  mind. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  hope  so!"  answers  Lady  Bouverie,  laugh- 
ing. "It  may  be  rather  precipitate  to  talk  of  it,  as  the 
young  people  themselves  have  not  as  yet  chosen  to  make 
the  engagement  public;  but  I  am  positively  certain  there 
is  something  between  my  son  Richard  and  the  girl  you 
have  been" — archly — "so  persistently  admiring  for  the 
iast  half  hour.  I  am  sorry  to  blight  your  hopes,  Arthur, 
but  such,  I  feel  sure,  is  the  case." 

"I  hope  so  with  all  my  soul  I"  says  Colonel  Oswald, 

I 


194  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

with  extreme  vehemence.  "I  hope  there  is  so  much  be- 
tween Miss  Lome  and  any  son  of  yours  as  will  prevent 
their  coming  together  for  all  eternity." 

"  You  mean?"  interrogated  Lady  Bouverie,  turning  very 
pale. 

"  That  that  poor  child  over  there  is  the  victim  of  a 
cruel  wrong." 

"Go  on!"  gays  Lady  Bouverie,  with  blanched  lips, 
tightening  her  fingers  upon  her  fan  until  the  ivory  pieces 
snap  in  twain. 

f  *  I  mean  that  she — may  Heaven  pardon  those  who 
wronged  her!— was  never  born  in  wedlock!  She  is  name- 
less— i  llegi  ti  mate !" 

Lady  Bouverie  rises  to  her  feet. 

"  I  can  not  grasp  it  all  so  suddenly,"  she  says,  hoarsely. 
"  There  must  be  some  mistake.  I  must  know  more — alll" 

"  When  and  where  you  will,"  answers  the  colonel,  ris- 
ing too. 

"  Follow  me  into  one  of  these  anterooms,"  says  Lady 
Bouverie,  in  a  choked  tone — "  and  quickly.  I  feel  as  if 
this  horrible  doubt  could  never  be  soon  enough  allayed." 

"Lead!"  returned  Oswald,  briefly. 

Unconsciously  her  hurried  footsteps  carry  her  past  Dol- 
ores, who  is  still  standing  by  her  aunt,  smiling  as  one  at 
rest  with  all  the  world,  a  look  of  the  most  heavenly  peace 
upon  her  lovely  face. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

GRAY  sea,  gray  sky,  and  barren  rock;  above,  a  sullen 
heaven;  below,  a  chilly  mist  that,  creeping  ever  onward, 
covers  all  the  land  as  with  a  shroud.  The  sun  is  dead; 
with  heavy  wings  the  sea-gulls  beat  the  air,  and  sail  inland 
to  tell  of  coming  storms  and  storms  just  past. 

There  are  glints  of  watery  light  upon  the  pale  ocean 
now  lying  spent  and  wan  from  last  night's  passion.  Near 
the  shore  great  walls  of  foam  are  still  dashing  themselves 
over  the  small  black  rocks;  there  is  even  yet  a  furious 
anger  in  the  waves  as  they  rush  inward  to  waste  away  in 
yellow  foam  upon  the  beach.  A  weary,  moaning,  swish- 
ing sound  comes  from  the  caves,  a  sound  of  wrath  and 
pain  repressed. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  195 

Dolores,  pacing  up  and  down  upon  the  desolate  shore, 
looks  out  to  sea  and  marks  how  the  sullen  clouds  hang 
»pon  the  very  verge  of  the  horizon. 

"More  rain,"  she  says,  "  and  a  coming  storm." 

She  looks  a  little  sad,  a  little  dejected.  All  last  night 
she  lay  awake  listening  to  the  howling  of  the  wind  and  the 
distant  roar  from  the  ocean,  mingled  with  other  sounds 
nearer  and  sadder;  they  all  combined  to  wreck  her  slumber. 
Sleepless  she  lay,  troubled  by  the  angry  night  and  the 
Bound  of  wet  leaves  against  a  window-pane,  and  a  wind 
sobbing  through  a  rainy  dawn. 

Two  morns  have  come  and  gone  since  that  happy  night 
when  she  and  Dick  stood  together  in  the  garden  at  the 
Castle,  beneath  the  rays  of  the  dying  moon. 

Presently  she  seats  herself  upon  a  smooth  piece  of  rock, 
and  with  a  stick  begins  to  draw  in  idle  fashion  letters  on 
the  sand — letters  and  then  words,  and  then  that  dearest 
word  of  all— "Dick." 

From  this  it  is  but  a  simple  thing  to  come  to  herself — 
"  Dolores  Bouverie."  How  pretty  it  looks  and  sounds. 
She  is  still  staring  gravely  at  it  when  somebody,  coming 
noiselessly  up  to  her  on  the  soft  sand,  places  his  hand 
beneath  her  chin  and  turns  her  face  to  his. 

"Ah,  Dick!"  she  says,  with  a  little  rapturous  blush, 
holding  out  glad  arms  to  him. 

"Is  it  for  your  sins  you  wander  here  a/lone  on  such  a 
dismal  day,  my  ladye  faire?"  asks  he,  gayly,  seating  him- 
self beside  her,  and  is  all  this  writing" — gazing  at  the 
sand — "a  penance?  Why,  what  is  this?  'Dolores  Bou- 
verie!' Oh,  I  say — how  lovely  it  sounds!" 

"Doesn't  it?"  says  Dolores,*  flushing  with  genuine 
pleasure;  then  all  at  once  she  grows  rather  pale.  "  But 
it  is  unlucky  to  do  it,  isn't  it?"  she  asks,  nervously. 

"  Stuff!"  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  with  undiminished  spirit. 
"  If  you  once  begin  to  believe  in  omens,  you  will  never 
again  know  a  satisfactory  moment.  True,  I  assure  you! 
My  love,  how  cold  your  hands  are!  You  shouldn't  stay 
here  so  long  on  such  a  day;  and  your  face — what  a  sad 
little  face!  Has  anything  vexed  you,  darling?" 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not  vexed;  it  is  only  the  effect  of  last 
night's  storm,  I  suppose.  Yet  there  is  a  weight  here  " — 
laying  her  small,  chilly  hands  upon  her  breast — "  that  I 
can  not  account  for." 


196  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Don't  try  to,"  counsels  Dick,  comfortably,  drawing 
her  nearer  to  him  and  tucking  both  her  hands  inside  his 
coat  by  way  of  warming  them. 

"  But  I  wish  I  could,"  says  she,  miserably.  "It  is  a 
horrible  depression  that  has  seized  upon  me,  and — and  it 
frightens  me.  Oh,  I  wish  I  hadn't  written  my  name  so 
in  the  sand!  Perhaps,"  tears  rising  in  her  eyes,  "  I  shall 
never  marry  you  now." 

"  Won't  you,  indeed!'  cries  Dick,  indignantly.  "Don't 
try  to  get  out  of  it  in  that  way,  my  lady,  because  it's  no 
good  your  trying.  What  a  baby  you  are,  Dolores!  I  be- 
lieve YOU  find  a  real  luxury  in  making  yourself  wretched." 

"  Indeed  you  are  wrong,"  says  she,  earnestly.  "I  hate 
being  wretched;  but  there  is  something  within  me  to-day 
that  forbids  my  being  happy.  What  is  it,  Dick?  A  warn- 
ing?" 

"  Digestion,"  says  Dick,  prosaically.  "  What  did  you 
have  for  breakfast — eh?" 

"An  egg,"  answers  his  fiancee,  thoughtfully,  "and 
after  that  some  hot  cake — just  a  little  wee  hot  cake — no 
more." 

"  'Tis  the  hot  case,"  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  with  decision. 
"  Hot  cake  is  the  very —  It  is,  I  do  assure  you;  I  give 
you  my  word  it  is." 

But,  though  he  tries  to  laugh  her  out  of  her  depression, 
he  yet  looks  at  her  very  keenly,  and  grows  secretly  anx- 
ious because  of  this  change  in  her.  It  is  so  unlike  his 
little  bright  love  to  talk  in  this  dolorous  way. 

Then  suddenly  it  occurs  to  him — in  a  most  unlucky 
moment — that  a  little  wholesome  scolding  will  do  her  a 
world  of  good.  The  very  thing!  No  doubt  she  has  never 
had  one  in  all  her  life  before,  so  that  it  will  have  the  virtue 
of  novelty.  It  will  rouse  her,  and — and  perhaps  frighten 
her  a  bit,  and  bring  her  to  a  healthier  frame  of  mind. 

"Look  here!"  he  says,  with  quite  an  air.  "  I've  been 
jesting  up  to  this;  but,  do  you  know,  I  feel  positively 
ashamed  of  you — I  do  indeed!  One  would  think  by  your 
manner  you  were  the  most  unhappy  girl  on  earth,  whereas 
you  have  everything  your  own  way,  as  it  seems  to  me; 
you  have  an  aunt  who  positively  adores  you,  a  lover  who — " 

"A  lover  indeed!"  interrupts  Miss  Lome  indignantly. 
"  Do  you  call  yourself  a  lover?  Oh,  dear,  to  think  that 
you  should  so  ill-treat  me — you,  whom  I  trusted!" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  197 

Quite  a  new  light  has  come  into  her  lucent  eyes — an 
angry  light.  The  result  of  Mr.  Bouverie's  late  maneuver 
is  perhaps  a  trifle  more  pronounced  than  he  has  counted 
upon,  and  just  at  this  moment  he  is  probably  quife  as 
"  frightened  "  by  his  "scolding"  as  he  had  hoped  she 
would  have  been. 

"If  you  are  going  to  be  cruel  to  me,*' goes  on  Miss 
Lome,  with  undirninished  wrath,  "you  had  better  go 
Hway;  I  didn't  come  here  to-day  to  be  accused  of  all  sorts 
of  wicked  things.  To-day  too — when  I  was  so  miserable! 
Oil,  it  is  more  than  one  can  endure!" 

"  I  really,"  begins  he,  trying  fearfully  to  put  in  a  word 
or  two. 

But  it  is  of  little  use  for  him.  She  treats  him  as  the 
atom  he  has  been  taught  by  certain  writers  to  believe  him- 
self, and  hurries  onward  with  her  reproaches  like  a  small 
tornado. 

"What  have  I  done  to  you?"  she  says.  "No  doubt 
you  are  tired  of  me!" 

"Dolores!"  exclaims  poor  Dick;  but  she  repulses  his 
warm  hand-clasp  and  looks  at  him — to  the  increasing  of 
his  misery — with  large  eyes  drowned  in  tears. 

"Oh,  go  from  me,  forsake  me,  if  yon  will!"  she  sobs. 
"You  are  ashamed  of  me,  you  say!  There — take  back 
your  ring!  You  are  all  my  happiness;  but  I  resign  you, 
I  return  you  to  yourself,  as  you  will  have  it  so!" 

She  has  taken  the  sacred  ring  from  her  finger  and  now 
tenders  it  to  him  with  tremulous  lips. 

"  Oh,  fling  it  into  the  tide,"  says  Dick — "good  enough 
for  it!  If  you  don't  want  it,  where  is  its  use?" 

Then  all  in  an  instant,  the  touch  of  temper  that  is  so 
strange  to  her  and  has  BO  torn  her  soft  heart,  vanishes. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  oh,  Dick,"  she  cries,  holding  out  her  gen- 
tle arms  to  him,  and  breaking  into  an  agonized  burst  of 
tears,  "  I  don't  mean  it.  How  could  I  be  so  bad  to  you, 
my  own,  own  boy?  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
me  to-day." 

She  sobs  unrestrainedly  as  he  gathers  her  to  hig  heart. 

"  It  is  all  your  headache,"  he  says  soothingly,  "  and 
this  beastly  day.  I  don't  feel  particularly  lively,  myself, 
do  you  know.  Nothing  so  deoressing  as  the  sea  and 
murky  clouds  and  so  oul" 


198  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

A  sudden  color  flames  and  sinks  in  her  face,  and  her 
Jips  part. 

"  You  are  too  good  for  »e,"  she  says,  in  a  tone  scarcely 
audible.  "Even  when  first  I  saw  you  I  knew  that,  yet 
my  heart  went  out  to  yon,  not  knowing 

"  '  For  it  was  love  who  came  to  me, 
Who  might  not  know  his  name.'  " 

"  Yon  know  it  now,"  says  Dick  gently. 

"  I  have  made  bad  use  of  my  knowledge  then.  I  have 
been  unkind  to  my  love.  Oh,  Dick,  do  you  think  you 
still  love  me?" 

"Do  you  think  I  still  live?"  says  Dick.  "My  death 
alone  will  end  my  devotion  to  you.  Every  tear  you  shed, 
Dolores,  causes  me  a  far  keener  anguish  than  it  causes 
you." 

"But  you  must  think  me  so  ill-tempered,"  remarks 
Miss  Lome  miserably.  "  I  have  been  so  horribly  unjust. 
Now  do  say  you  think  I  am  the  most  ill-tempered  person 
you  ever  met.  I'm  sure" — tearfully — "I  deserve  it." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  says  Bouverie 
indignantly.  "  What  a  likely  thing!  I  believe,  if  there 
is  an  angel  upon  earth,  it  is  your  own  sweet  self." 

"Ah,  but  there  isn't!"  says  she,  slipping  her  hand  into 
his.  "So  now,  what  do  you  say?" 

"Not  another  word  will  you  get  out  of  me  to  your  dis- 
paragement," returns  he,  laughing. 

She  is  silent  for  a  little  time  after  this,  leaning  against 
him  and  looking  out  to  sea,  to  where  the  sullen  clouds 
have  dropped  upon  the  horizon. 

"I  wish  I  could  paint  the  scene,"  she  says  presently, 
"  just  as  it  is  now,  with  you  and  me  together  hand  in 
hand.  I  should  call  it — " 

"What?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say  '  The  Farewell,' "  murmurs  she, 
with  a  swift  upward  glance;  "but  that  would  not  suit  us, 
would  it?"  she  sighs. 

"No;  there  shall  be  no  farewell  between  us  two,"  says 
Bouverie  steadily.  "  What  ails  this  day,  sweetheart,  that 
it  should  fret  you  so?  What  is  there  about  it — " 

"  Yes,  what?  "  she  asks  eagerly.  "  It  is  in  the  air  and 
all  arousd  me;  I  feel  it.  *  An  odor  as  of  love  and  love's 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  1W 

doom.'  Oh  that  I  could  tell  what  lies  before  me,  that  I 
could  read  my  destiny!" 

"  I'll  read  it  for  you — a  long  and  happy  life  with  me. 
And  now,  to  put  an  end  to  this  fit  of  idle  speculation,  let 
us  think  of  something  rational — something  that  will  really 
put  an  end  to  it  forever.  Let  ns  name  our  wedding-day." 

He  had  expected  some  slight  opposition;  but,  to  his  sur- 
prise, she  agrees  eagerly  to  his  proposition. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  says  quickly. 

"  This  day  month?" 

"  Not  this  day  month,"  she  says,  recoiling  from  him 
with  a  little  shiver.  "Let  our  wedding-day  have  no 
connection  with  this  one;  I  mistrust  it.  Laugh  at  me  as 
you  will,  Dick,"  looking  at  him  with  feverish  earnestness, 
"  but  I  tell  you  I  shall  never  forget  this  day  to  the  hour  of 
my  death?" 

"Don't,  my  dear,"  says  Dick,  "  if  it  gives  you  the  least 
satisfaction  to  remember  it.  To  me  it  seems  rather  a 
poor  affair;  but,  if  you  admire  it,  why  that  is  everything! 
But  to  return  to  our  subject;  to-morrow  month  then?" 

"  If  you  wish." 

"If  you  wish,  darling.  There  is  no  doubt  about  me." 
He  regards  her  somewhat  anxiously.  "  You  will  be  glad 
to  marry  me,  Dolores?" 

"  Yes;  I  think  so — nay,  I  know  it!"  says  the  girl,  rest- 
lessly turning  to  him  and  laying  her  head  upon  his  breast. 
"With  you  I  shall  be  safe — safe  and  happy." 

"  That  is  right,"  says  he,  great  cheer  in  his  tone. 
"And  now  to  break  to  my  mother  this  mighty  secret  that 
she  already  knows  so  well."  He  laughs.  "  I  can  see  her 
face  when  I  speak;  her  exact  intonation  is  in  my  ears.  *I 
am  rejoiced,  Richard,  that  your  choice  has  fallen  upon 
Miss  Lome;  I  have  always  had  grave  doubts  about  your 
making  a  marriage  that  would  please  me;  your  tastes  and 
mine  are — er — so  utterly  dissimilar;  but  Dolores  is  all  I 
could  possibly  desire.' ' 

His  imitation  of  his  mother's  cold  repellent  manner  is 
perfect;  Dolores  smiles  faintly. 

"  You  flatter  me,"  she  says.  "  When  first  "—softly — 
"  you  told  me  of  your  love,  a  fear  of  your  mother  rose 
within  me — an  undefined  fear;  but  it  told  me  she  would 
be  the  one  to  mar  our  joy.  This  fear  is  with  me  again 
now  more  strongly  than  before;  there  is  a  terrible  doubt 


200  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

at  my  heart."  Her  voice  falters.  "  Dick,  don't  tell  he* 
to-day!" 

"Pshaw!"  says  Mr.  Bouverie,  giving  her  a  loving  little 
shake.  "  I  decline  altogether  to  listen  to  any  more  of 
your  croaking.  Come,  let  me  take  you  home — and  mind 
you  get  a  glass  of  sherry  the  moment  you  go  in.  I  won't 
let  you  stay  by  this  cruel  crawling  foam  any  longer." 

At  the  wicket-gate  that  leads  into  one  of  the  avenues  of 
Grey  lands  they  part. 

"  I'll  be  with  you  again  this  evening,"  he  says,  fondly, 
AS  he  gives  her  a  last  caress,  and  sees  her  safely  inside  the 
gate. 

But  she  runs  after  him  when  he  has  gone  a  little  way, 
and,  of  her  own  sweet  will,  throws  her  arms  round  him 
and  kisses  him  with  a  loving  innocent  ardor  that  delights 
him. 

"  See  here,  Miss  Lome,"  he  says,  holding  her  a  little 
from  him.  "  Now  that  our  engagement  is  to  be  made 
public,  I  must  beg  of  you  to  cultivate  a  greater  dignity  of 
demeanor.  To  run  after  a  young  man  in  the  way  you 
have  just  done  and  to  throw  yourself  unsolicited  into  his 
arms — oh,  I  blush  for  you!" 

"I  can  do  it  for  myself,  thank  you,"  retorts  she  saucily, 
though  she  colors  vividly  as  she  says  it,  and  glances  shyly 
at  him.  "Oh,  Dick,  it  wasn't  so  much  to  kiss  you  I 
wanted,  as  to  say  that  I  hope  you  aren't  angry  with  me 
about  the  ring!  You  know  I  didn't  mean  it,  don't  you? 
You  know  " — confusedly,  turning  the  button  upon  his 
coat  round  and  round  with  a  pretty  nervousness — "  I 
would  not  have  given  it  back  to  you — no,  not  even  if  you 
had  asked  for  it!" 

"  Well,  that's  a  bargain,"  says  Dick,  gayly.  "  Remem- 
ber,  you  have  promised  not  to  release  me  from  my  allegi- 
ance until  I  ask  you  to  do  so,  and — not  then  either! 
There!" — taking  both  her  hands.  "Good-bye  for  a  little 
while,  you  baby,  you  love,  and  think  of  me  only — as  I  shall 
of  you — until  we  meet  again." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CBOSSING  the  hall  on  his  way  to  his  mother's  apart- 
ments, Bouverie  comes  in  contact  with  Bruno.  Later  on 
he  remembers  how  Bruno  started  at  the  meeting,  and 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  301 

what  a  strange  change  passed  over  his  face — a  great  com- 
passion mingled  with  honest  regret. 

"  Our  mother  wants  to  see  you,  Dick,"  he  says,  witb 
an  assumption  of  easiness  evidently  forced. 

But  Dick,  full  of  his  own  happy  thoughts,  fails  to 
notice  it. 

"  For  once,  then,  we  shall  be  well  met,"  he  says,  gayly. 
"  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  seek  her." 

He  nods  and  passes  on,  but  in  a  moment  is  aware  that 
Bruno  is  following  him. 

"  You  want  me?"  he  asks,  kindly,  stopping  short 
again. 

Whatever  words  may  have  been  on  Bruno's  lips,  this 
direct  query  prevents  his  giving  them  voice. 

"A  cigarette,  if  you  have  one,"  he  says,  somewhat 
lamely,  in  a  rather  faltering  tone.  "  Thanks." 

Still  he  hesitates;  but,  seeing  that  Bouverie  is  now  be- 
ginning to  regard  him  with  open  astonishment,  he  draws 
nearer  and  compels  himself  to  speak. 

"She'll  be  beastly  to  you,  Dick,"  he  exclaims,  with 
nervous  haste — "  perfectly  beastly!  But  don't  take  it  to 
heart  too  much!  Whatever  you  may  decide — and  I  think 
it  will  be  against  her — I'll  back  you  up." 

He  turns  away  abruptly,  but  not  before  Dick  has  seen 
that  his  eyes  are  full  of  tears. 

"Those  wretched  accounts  again,  no  doubt,"  muses 
Bouverie,  looking  after  him,  "and  diatribes  against  the 
old  steward!  Well,  if  she  must  rail,  she  must.  But  what 
a  good  fellow  Bruno  is  to  have  my  interests  so  near!  And 
so  I'm  in  for  a  scene  with  the  mater!  What  matter? 
What  does  anything  matter,  with  happiness  so  close  at 
hand?" 

He  almost  laughs  aloud  in  real  gladness  of  heart  as  he 
turns  the  corner  of  the  corridor  that  brings  him  to  his 
mother's  door. 

She  is  sitting  before  a  davenport,  an  open  letter  in  her 
hand.  There  is  something  in  her  expression  as  she  turns 
round  slowly  to  acknowledge  his  presence  which  suggests 
danger  to  Dick. 

"  Somebody  has  been  at  it  again!"  he  mutters  to  him- 
self, as  he  comes  forward  with  a  courte^s  smile  upon 
his  lips. 

"  At  last  you  are  here!"  aavs,  Ladj[  JBonveric  coldly. 


203  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  I  have  sent  messengers  for  you  everywhere — even  to 
Greylands,  where  I  believed  you  might  be  found;  but — " 

"A  most  natural  conclusion,"  interrupts  Dick,  laugh- 
ing. "  Mother,  we  owe  you  perhaps  an  apology  for  so  long 
concealing  our  love  from  you;  but — " 

"We!  Who?"  asks  Lady  Boaverie,  stepping  back  a 
pace  or  two,  and  laying  her  hand  heavily  upon  the  arm  of 
ufauteuil  near. 

"  Dolores  and  I,"  says  Bouverie  gently.  "  Of  our 
affection  for  each  other  you  have  been  of  course  aware, 
but  the  public  declaration  of  it  has  been  delayed  until 
now.  I  have  come  here  to  tell  you  that  she  has  done  me 
the  honor  to  accept  me,  and  that  we  are  to  be  married — n 

"Never!"  exclaims  Lady  Bouverie,  with  curious  dis- 
tinctness. 

Her  tone  is  neither  hurried  nor  excited.  The  fatal 
word  drops  from  her  in  a  cold  prophetic  way  that  startles 
him  more  than  he  is  aware.  He  raises  his  head  to  speak; 
but  she  checks  him  by  an  imperious  gesture,  and  before 
he  has  time  to  recover  himself,  has  poured  into  his  ears 
the  sad,  sad  story  Colonel  Oswald  has  related  to  her.  The 
truth  is  indeed  thus  rudely  thrust  upon  him  before  he 
has  had  time  to  realize  that  there  is  a  truth  to  be  revealed. 

"  Who  told  you  this  infamous  story?'*  he  asks  at  last, 
in  a  tone  that  unnerves  her  a  little,  clothed  about  though 
she  is  with  the  armor  of  an  utter  heartlessness.  Bouverie 
has  grown  deadly  pale;  he  is  leaning  with  downcast  eyea 
against  the  marble  mantel-piece,  and  is  biting  his  lip  as 
if  to  compel  the  return  of  blood  to  it. 

"  Colonel  Oswald." 

"  Oswald!     What  should  he  know  of  her?" 

"  Fortunately  for  you,  he  was  mixed  up  with  the  Matur- 
ins  at  one  time,  or  this  wretched  conspiracy  to  get  you 
to  marry  the  girl  and  give  her  an  honest  name  might  hare 
been  successful." 

"  Fortunate  for  me?"  says  Dick.  A  low  bitter  laugh 
breaks  from  him.  He  clinches  his  right  hand  until  the 
nails  almost  force  the  blood  from  the  palm,  and  stands 
rigid,  waiting  for  what  he  yet  must  hear.  Ah,  how  he 
had  feared  death  for  her!  But  shame,  shame! 

"It  appears  that  Oswald  was  actually  in  love  with  this 
girl's  miserable  mother  at  one  time.  She  threw  him.  over, 
I  believe,  or  something  of  that  sort,  and — " 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  205 

"Ana  now  he  is  having  his  revenge — a  noble  one! 
Vengeance  on  the  poor  dead!  The  more  one  knows  of 
Oswald  the  more  one  gets  to  respect  him." 

"  Melodrama  is  out  of  place  here,"  says  his  mother 
icily.  "And  you  should  remember  he  has  done  you  a 
service  by  exposing  this  disgraceful  plot,  for  which  you 
should  be  eternally  grateful. 

"  Have  you  only  this  man's  word  for  all  this?" 

"  Knowing  the  obstinacy  of  your  disposition,  I  was  pre- 
pared for  that  question.  If  you  wish  further  proofs,  I 
have  decided  on  going  to  Miss  Maturin  myself — unpleas- 
ant though  such  a  duty  must  naturally  be — to  demand 
the  truth  from  her  own  lips." 

"  She  may  deny  it,"  says  Dick,  eagerly,  a  gleam  of  hope 
illumining  his  pale  face  fora  moment.  It  is  a  very  faint 
gleam,  and  dies  almost  as  it  is  born. 

"She  will  not" — coldly.  "This  morning  I  induced 
Oswald  to  go  to  her." 

"  To  go  to  her?  To  speak  to  her  on  such  a  subject  as 
that?"  exclaims  Dick,  starting  back  from  her,  horror  and 
aversion  in  his  gaze.  "  Good  heavens!  And  she  said — " 

"  Nothing  to  the  purpose,  except  that  she  would  receive 
me  at  any  hour  I  might  appoint  to  go  to  her;  no  more 
than  that.  'But  her  manner,'  he  said,  'was  sufficient. 
She  looked  stricken  to  death!'  As  well  she  might!" — 
sternly.  "  The  discovery  of  such  a  scandalous  deception 
should  cover  any  woman  with  everlasting  shame!  When 
we  do  meet  I  shall  certainly  tell  her  what  I  think  of  her," 
concludes  Lady  Bouverie,  with  calm  vindictiveness. 

"  Is  that  part  of  your  duty,  too?"  says  her  son,  in  a 
curious  tone.  Then  he  covers  his  face  with  his  hand. 
"Oh,  poor  soul,"  he  mutters,  "how  she  loves  that  girl! 
And  now — " 

A  little  dull  color  has  crept  into  his  mother's  cheeks, 
faint  crimson  lines  that  tell  of  deepest  anger.  Her  pale 
eyes  take  a  steely  shade.  Yet  there  is,  too,  a  miserable 
smile  of  half-pleasurable  excitement  upon  her  cold  face. 
Evidently  this  encounter  with  Miss  Maturin  is  not  alto- 
gether so  distasteful  to  her  as  she  would  have  it  seem. 

"  Colonel  Oswald  tells  me  she  was  a  most  pitiable  spec- 
tacle," she  goes  on,  regarding  her  son  fixedly.  "If  I 
were  you,  Kichard,  I  think  I  should  reserve  niy  sympathy 


204  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

for  some  one  better  than  an  exposed  s windier  1"    A  »low 
sneer  curls  her  lip. 

"Oswald  is  a  brave  man!"  says  Bouverie,  with  a  harsh 
unmirthful  laugh — the  latter  part  of  his  mother's  speech 
has  passed  unheard  by  him.  "I  wonder  what  most  men 
would  have  required  to  perform  such  a  service  as  that  for 
you!" 

"  You  can  regard  his  conduct  in  any  light  you  will," 
returns  she,  with  a  shrug.  "He  fortunately  knew  but 
little  of  your  infatuation  for  this  young  lady,  or  perhaps 
he  might  have  withheld  his  story.  Your  engagement,  of 
which  I  was  allowed  to  know  nothing" — with  an  injured 
wave  of  her  hand — "  was  also  of  course  unknown  to  him. 
Now,  as  it  must  necessarily  come  to  an  end,  perhaps  it 
was  as  well  we  were  all  so  willfully  left  in  ignorance  of  it." 

"To  an  end?"  repeats  Dick,  dreamily;  he  hardly 
knows  what  he  says.  Once  more  he  is  back  again  with 
his  darling  on  the  stormy  beach,  listening  to  her  sad 
yoice,  her  plaintive  forebodings  that,  alas,  alas,  have  been 
so  cruelly  verified ! 

Seeing  him  thus,  calm  and  apparently  convinced,  Lady 
Bouverie  mistakes  his  silence  for  submission,  and  her 
heart  beats  high  with  the  hope  of  coming  triumph. 

"  Certainly  to  an  end,"  she  says.  "  In  a  little  time  you 
will  learn  to  forget  you  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  meet 
her." 

"Shall  I?"  questions  Dick  still  dreamily,  still  with  his 
soul  filled  with  the  last  words  his  little  pretty  love  had 
said  to  him. 

"We  have  now  only  to  consider,"  ponders  Lady 
Bouverie  thoughtfully,  "  the  best  way  to  get  out  of  it." 

"  The  best  way  to  break  her  heart,  you  mean!" — slowly 
raising  his  head. 

"I  beg 'you  will  be  sensible,"  returns  his  mother, 
severely.  "All  this  is  a  great  worry  to  me,  and  I  must 
really  ask  yon  to  help,  instead  of  hindering,  me  in  my 
efforts  to  assist  you  out  of  a  most  unpleasant  affair.  You 
have  brought  it  all  upon  yourself,  remember;  I  have  been 
purposely  kept  in  the  dark  all  along,  for  reasons  perfectly 
apparent  to  me  now;  Miss  Maturin's  machinations  have 
been  brought  to  light,  and  you  should  certainly  thank  me 
for  my  readiness  to  give  you  any  help  in  my  power.  Not 
that  I  look  for  gratitude  from  you*  Richard;  that  would 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  205 

be  too  much  to  expect.  All  my  life  I  have  been  deeply 
grieved  by  a  want  of  sympathy  on  your  part*  Still,  when 
occasion  arises,  I  can  not  forgot  I  am  a  mother!'* 

She  pauses  after  this,  and  tries  to  conjure  up  a  tear; 
but  tears  and  she  have  been  strangers  for  so  long  that 
now  they  refuse  to  answer  to  her  call. 

"  I  don't  imagine  you  will  have  any  difficulty  in  break- 
ing off  your — friendship  with  her,"  she  goes  on  presently, 
seeing  Dick  makes  no  effort  to  reply  to  her.  "She  will 
see  at  once  that  this  marriage  can  never  take  place." 

"  No,"  says  Dick,  in  a  low  tone;  "  and  yet  she  is  the 
same  perfect  creature  she  was  yesterday,  without  spot  or 
blemish!" 

"Spot — blemish!"  repeats  Lady  Bouverie,  regarding 
him  with  angry  contempt.  "Considering  all  things,  I 
must  say  your  words  are  very  inappropriately  chosen.  Do 
you  fully  understand — the  hideousness  of  the  story  you 
have  just  heard?" 

"  Why  can  not  it  be  hushed  up?"  says  the  young  man, 
raising  his  haggard  eyes  to  hers. 

Once  more,  in  the  dull  misery  of  his  face,  she  reads 
victory,  and  rejoices  in  it.  But  his  mind  has  again  wan- 
dered far  from  his  present  surroundings,  and  is  lost  in  a 
mournful  speculation  as  to  how  best  to  keep  this  wretched 
story  from  Dolores'  ears.  Oh,  horrible!  If  this  vile 
thing  should  chance  to  come  to  her,  to  darken,  to  sully 
forever  her  fair  soul! 

"  Of  course  it  must  be  hushed  up,"  says  Lady  Bouverie 
magnanimously.  "  None  of  us  will  repent  it.  Your 
family  should  be  the  last  to  blazon  it  abroad;  and  I  sup- 
pose Miss  Maturin  will  have  the  grace  to  leave  Greylandi 
as  soon  as  possible.  You  must  contrive  to  end  your  ac- 
quaintance there  in  some  plausible,  honorable  way  that 
will  spare  the  girl." 

"Oh,  as  for  the  honor,"  says  Dick — then,  changing 
his  tone  with  such  rapidity  that  she  scarcely  heeds  the 
sharp  vehemence  of  his  first  words,  he  continues  quietly, 
"  What  I  fail  to  see  is  how  this  news  affects  Dolores,  how 
it  changes  her,  what  alteration  it  makes  in  her  nature, 
her—" 

"Social  position  perhaps?"  puts  in  Lady  Bouverie, 
with  insolent  cruelty.  "  None,  except  that  society  is  un- 
fortunately prejudiced  ui  favor  of  people  born  in  wedlock. 


206  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

True,  she  has  the  same  eyes,  the  same  hair  she  had 
day;  but  for  the  rest —  Pah!  My  dear  Richard,  let  us 
be  sensible!  When  I  believed  this  girl  to  be  as  well  born 
as  she  has  been  treacherously  represented,  I  was  quite 
willing  you  should  pay  your  addresses  to  her — her  fortune 
being  all  one  could  desire;  but  now!" — she  spreads  out 
her  hands  in  an  eloquent  fashion  that  makes  further  ex- 
planation unnecessary. 

"  Besides  her  hair  and  eyes  she  has  that  fortune  still," 
says  Dick,  making  a  last  attempt  to  smooth  matters  for 
his  poor  love. 

"  Had  she  the  mines  of  Golconda  I  should  refuse  to 
receive  her  as  my  daughter!"  declares  Lady  Bouverie, 
haughtily,  rising  to  her  feet. 

Dick  breaks  into  an  odd  defiant  laugh  and  flings  out 
his  arm  impulsively,  as  though  thrusting  from  him  some 
hateful  vision. 

"  That  is  a  pity,"  he  says,  distinctly,  "  because  1  shall 
most  certainly  marry  her! 

The  silence  that  follows  upon  his  words  is  so  deep  that 
it  is  almost  painful.  Lady  Bouverie,  still  standing,  and 
pale  to  the  lips,  regards  her  son  with  flashing  eyes.  This 
is  a  greater  mutiny  than  she  has  ever  dreamed  of.  She 
has  counted  on  hesitation  and  vain  pleadings,  but  such 
rank  rebellion — never! 

"If  this  be  acting  it  is  admirable,"  she  says  at  last,  in 
a  voice  scarcely  audible,  "  but  ill-timed.  Marry!  Marry 
her,  with  this  slur,  this  stigma  upon  her?" 

"  Ay,  were  the  slur  as  great  again.  What — is  she  to 
be  condemned  and  cast  aside — she,  with  her  white  soul  and 
gi-ileless  mind — because  of — of — "  He  hesitates. 

Lady  Bouverie  laughs  aloud. 

"  Yes,  it  is  difficult  of  expression,  is  it  not?"  she  says, 
with  a  cruel  sneer.  "  Yet  you  will  have  to  put  it  into 
words  sooner  or  later;  your  friends  will  naturally  be  anx- 
ious to  hear  all  about  your  wife's  parentage.  But  this  is 
only  a  sorry  jest  of  yours!"  exclaims  she,  turning  upon 
him  fiercely.  "  You  would  not  dare  to  do  this  thing!" 

"  Do  not  mistake  me  for  a  moment,"  says  Bouverie, 
calmly.  "  I  aeldom  jest — never  on  subjects  close  to  my 
heart." 

"  Are  you  mad?"  exclaims  she,  moving  a  little  nearer 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  30! 

to  him.  "  Would  any  sane  man  contemplate  such  a 
deed?  What  glamour  has  been  cast  upon  you?" 

"  I  love  her,  and  she  loves  me,"  says  Dick,  simply.  "  It 
is  the  glamour  that  rules  the  world  and  makes  it  sweet." 
A  little  rapt  look  comes  into  his  face.  "Soon  it  shall  be 
my  joy,  my  privilege,  to  shield  her  from  all  scorn." 

"  When  you  speak  so  it  is  mere  folly.  The  world  is 
all  around  us,  and  through  the  very  deepest  love,  the 
most  careful  guarding,  its  scorn  will  pierce.  And  do  not 
dream  she  will  outlive  this  thing.  The  shame  born  with 
her  will  cling  to  her  until  her  dying  day!" 

"  The  more  reason  why  I  too  should  cling  to  her,"  says 
Bouverie,  steadily.  "  Poor  little  innocent  child!" 

"  You  stand  there  before  me,  and  presume  to  tell  me 
you  really  mean  marriage  with  her?" 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  And  yon  will  bring  this  girl,  this  outcast,  this 
pariah — " 

Her  burst  of  vehement  insolence  is  brought  to  as  vehe- 
ment a  conclusion.  Bouverie,  striding  forward,  lays  his 
hand  with  a  sudden  vehement  pressure  upon  her  wrist. 
His  nostrils  are  dilated,  his  whole  face  k  white  with  un- 
repressed  rage.  At  this  moment  it  is  impossible  not  to 
notice  the  strange  likeness  that  exists  between  mother 
and  son. 

"  Be  silent,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Not  another 
word!  I  forbid  you  to  use  such  epithets  again  toward  the 
woman  I  lovel" 

"  A  eon  forbid  a  mother!"  frowns  she,  shaking  her  arm 
free  of  his  grasp.  "  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  I  owe  you 
obedience!" 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,"  returns  he,  with  a  terrible 
weariness,  raising  his  hand  to  his  head;  "but  misery  is 
overcoming  me!  Oh,  mother,  if  this  thing  should  come 
to  her  ears!  If  she  should  hear  of  it — " 

His  voice  fails  him.  There  is  an  agonized  entreaty  in 
his  eyes  that  must  have  touched  any  heart  but  hers. 

"  She  need  not  hear  of  it,"  she  says,  coldly.  "  If  you 
so  dread  pain  for  her,  you  can  easily  avert  it." 

"  But  how?"  asks  he,  regarding  her  piteously.  His 
own  mother,  surely  she  will  have  mercy! 

"  By  putting  an  end  at  once  to  this  most  mistaken  en- 
gagement," answers  she,  with  cold  emphasis.  "  Agre« 


208  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

to  this  scheme,  and  the  girl  need  know  nothing.  Persist, 
and  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  as  a  mother  to  go  to  her,  ex- 
plain all,  and  ask  her  to  release  you." 

"  You  would  go  to  her!"  cries  he,  falling  back  as  though 
stricken;  then,  recovering  himself,  he  straightens  his 
figure  as  one  might  who  is  just  recovering  from  some  fool- 
ish fright,  and  looks  at  her  kindly.  '-'Dear  mother,  un- 
say that,  at  least!"  he  says,  a  thrill  of  indescribable  horror 
in  his  tone.  "  I  know  you  did  not  mean  it!" 

"  You  are  wrong  then;  I  do  mean  it,"  returns  she,  un- 
moyed. 

"Are  you  a  fiend  or  a  woman,"  cries  he  then,  with  A 
burst  of  uncontrollable  passion,  "  that  you  can  thus  cold- 
ly even  think  on  such  a  thing?  To  go  to  that  child,  to 
pour  into  her  ears  words  that  will  poison  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  her  young  life,  that  will  kill  forever  all  the  sweet 
happiness  that  thrills  through  every  vein!  Oh,  no,  it  is 
not  possible!  You — you  to  do  this  thing!  You,  who 
have  looked  into  her  innocent  eyes  and  marked  the  happy 
smile  upon  her  perfect  lips!  You,  who  only  last  week 
extolled  all  these  charms  and  made  open  mention  of  them! 
You,  who  knew  of  our  love — " 

"  You  forget" — icily.  "Of  your  own  free  will  you 
k^pt  me  in  the  dark;  I  knew  nothing  of  it.  Always  re- 
member that.  I  knew  nothing!" 

"  To  your  mercy,"  says  Bouverie,  after  a  lengthened 
and  curious  gaze  at  her,  "  I  no  longer  appeal.  It  has  failed 
me.  Before  we  part,  however,  I  would  tell  you  that  my 
allegiance  to  my  love  can  know  no  change.  And  now 
a  last  word.  I  do  not  think — I  do  not  accuse  you  of 
really  meaning  all  that  you  have  said;  but" — his  face 
grows  rigid  and  his  teeth  meet — "but — hear  me — if  by 
your  means  this  unfortunate  tale  should  come  to  Dolores' 
ears,  remember  this,  that  you  willfully  and  of  your  own 
accord  broke  between  us  all  ties!  I  shall  be  no  longer 
your  son;  I  shall  forget  that  you  were  ever — my  mother!" 

Lady  Bouverie's  hands  tremble  slightly  as  they  rest 
upon  the  chair  near  her;  but  her  face  remains  impassive. 

"For  this  dutiful  speech,"  she  says,  "  I  have  to  thank 

Miss I  mean  the  girl  Dolores.  Really" — with  au 

insolent  smile — "  one  forgets  at  times  that  she  no  longer 
has  a  name!"  Then,  pointing  imperiously  to  the  door, 
"Go  I"  she  says.  "  I  have  done  with  you! 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  209 

Lady  Bouverie's  threat  to  her  son  to  go  down  to  Grey- 
lands  and  interview  Miss  Maturin  on  the  subject  of  this 
Bad  tragedy  that  lias  fallen  into  his  life,  proves  no  idle 
one.  To  order  her  carriage,  dress  herself  with  almost 
unusual  care,  and  start  on  her  unholy  expedition,  is  but 
the  work  of  a  few  minutes.  No  womanly  hesitation,  no 
godly  shrinking  from  such  godless  work,  stays  her.  An 
overpowering  desire  to  bring  down  shame  upon  the  head 
of  her  rebellious  son  urges  her  forward.  She  will  either 
gain  the  victory  over  him  or  leave  him  abased  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  so  dear  to  her. 

As  she  enters  the  library  at  Greylands  Miss  Maturin 
rises  instinctively  to  her  feet.  She  is  looking  pale  and 
haggard.  There  is  a  world  of  expectant  misery  in  her 
face,  a  strange  outward  gaze  at  things  that  she  would 
fend  from  her,  were  that  possible. 

Fear  and  misery  mark  her.  It  seems  indeed  as  though 
a  life-time  has  swept  over  her  since  last  she  and  Lady  Bou- 
verie  stood  thus  face  to  face.  The  old,  proud,  sweet  gra- 
ciousnes?  is  gone  from  her.  and  she  looks  crushed,  despoiled 
of  hope,  of  peace,  of  all  that  makes  life  pleasant  to  the 
soul. 

But  yesterday,  and  she  had  been  a  comely,  smiling 
woman,  holding  old  age — that  barren  desert — as  still  far 
away  from  her  in  a  region  as  yet  untraversed.  To-day 
she  is  feeble,  broken,  already  entered  on  the  unloved 
heritage,  standing  shrinking  on  the  outskirts  of  it,  with 
the  last  shreds  of  youth  and  hope  lying  well  behind. 

She  makes  no  attempt  to  greet  her  visitor  beyond  that 
involuntary  uprising;  she  makes  no  step  toward  her.  All 
her  bravery  and  her  high  courage  have  forsaken  her,  and 
there  is  something  almost  terrible  in  the  timidity  of  the 
glance  she  casts  at  Lady  Bouverie. 

She  stands,  irresolute  supplication  in  her  whole  form, 
her  head  bowed  upon  her  breast,  her  body  slightly  bent, 
her  hands  clasped  together  with  a  convulsive  pressure. 

To  see  her  stand  thus — humbled,  speechless — creates 
in  Lady  Bouverie's  breast  a  sense  of  vindictive  pleasure. 
The  poor  soul  is  pleading  voicelessly  for  the  happiness  of 
the  creature  who  makes  her  happiness,  waiting  hopelessly 
for  a  mercy  that  some  kind  inner  spirit  warns  her  will 
not  be  granted.  To  Lady  Bouverii  it  is  even  exhilarating 


210  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

to  know  that  the  waiting  is  hopeless,  and  that  the  most 
passionate  prayer  for  mercy  will  fall  on  sterile  ground. 

"This  is  a  very  unpleasant  affair,"  says  Lady  Bouverie, 
at  last  breaking  the  silence,  and  speaking  in  her  clearest, 
most  staccato  tone. 

Miss  Maturin,  raising  her  melancholy  eyes,  regards  her 
wistfully. 

"  A  very  sad  one,"  she  murmurs,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible. 

She  unlocks  her  fingers  and  points  to  a  chair.  Lady 
Bouverie  sinks  languidly  into  it. 

"  Ah!  Doubtless  it  is  so  from  your  point  of  view," she 
gays,  indifferently,  unfurling  her  fan.  "  How  warm  it  is 
to-day — quite  tropical!  No,  thanks,  no — one  window  is 
sufficient.  Well,  you  see  it  was  to  talk  over  this — er — 
'  sad  '  affair" — with  a  little  bow  meant  as  a  recognition  of 
Miss  Maturin's  "  point  of  view  " — "  that  I  have  come  over 
here  to-day.  I  think  it  always  better  to  get  to  the  root  of 
an  ugly  matter  at  once — don't  you?" 

If  she  were  discussing  the  last  new  poaching  affray  with 
a  companion  as  unconcerned  in  the  affair  as  herself,  she 
could  hardly  display  greater  coolness.  Miss  Maturin,  as 
though  incapable  of  speech,  makes  some  faint  movement 
with  her  hand  which  stands  for  a  reply. 

"  No  matter  how  distressing  a  thing  may  be  to  me,1" 
goes  on  Lady  Bouverie,  in  a  self-righteous  tone,  '•  I  never 
shrink  from  my  duty.  And  really  I  have  suffered  more 
through  this — er — uncomfortable  report  than  I  can  des- 
cribe. Very  great  annoyance  has  been  mine."  She  leans 
back  in  her'seat,  and  there  is  almost  an  audacious  claim 
for  sympathy  in  her  highly  uplifted  brows  and  drooped 
lips.  "  Now,  you,  who  know  all  about  it,  will  kindly  give 
me  an  exact  idea  of  how  the  true  story  runs." 

"  What  is  there  to  tell?"  says  Miss  Maturin,  wearily. 

"  The  truth  " — promptly.  "  Whatever  it  may  be  I  have 
tutored  myself,  as  a  mother,  to  hear  and  receive  it.  I 
assure  you  " — with  a  self-regretful  shake  of  her  head — 
"  I  should  not  dream  of  mixing  myself  up  with  such  a — a 
forgive  me,  questionable  imbroglio  as  this,  did  I  not  feel 
it  to  be  imperative  upon  me,  for  my  son's  safety,  to  listen 
to  a  sucoincL  account  of  th<*  whole  matter  from  reliable 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  31] 

"Colonel  Oswald's  lips  are  reliable,"  says  Miss  Maturin, 
without  lifting  her  head. 

"Ah,  but  vours,  fora  headstrong  boy,  carry  so  much 
more  weight!"  remarks  Lady  Bonverie,  with  a  careful 
smile.  "  And  you  may  perhaps  have  noticed  " — dropping 
into  quite  a  confidential  tone — "  that  my  son  Richard  has 
of  late  imagined  himself  to  possess  a  some  what  exaggerated 
friendship  for  Miss — for  your  niece." 

"Not  friendship!"  says  Miss  Maturin  softly, 

"  Don't  depreciate  it;  it  is,  I  assure  you,  a  great,  friend- 
ihip,"  returns  Lady  Bouverie,  still  smoothly  smiling. 
"  But,  great  as  it  is,  I  fear  it  must  cease  from  to-day." 

Miss  Maturin  starts,  and,  if  possible,  grows  a  shade 
paler  than  before. 

"  Yes,  from  to-day,"  repeats  Lady  Bouverie,  the  cold 
society  smile  still  upon  her  lips.  "  And  to  insure  this 
arrangement  I  look  to  you  for  assistance." 

"To  me?"  says  Miss  Maturin  faintly. 

"You!  Of  course,"  goes  on  Lady  Bouverie,  shutting 
up  her  fan  with  a  little  click.  "  You  see  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  Richard  should  be  convinced  that  no  falsity 
lies  in  the  statement  made  to  me  by  Colonel  Oswald  about 
Miss  Lome.  You  are  the  one  to  confirm  all  that  he  has 
said." 

She  leans  back  i»  her  seat  and  gazes  with  calm,  scrutin- 
izing eye  upon  her  victim.  A  dull  color  flames  into  Miss 
Maturin's  cheeks.  Hitherto  she  has  been  standing;  now 
she  sinks  upon  a  lounge  near  her,  as  though  physically 
unable  longer  to  support  her  own  weight. 


,  CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  YOTT  would  have  me  be  my  child's  murderer!"  Miss 
Maturin  cries,  in  a  choking  voice.  Then,  a  moment 
later,  "It  is  impossible!"  She  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  a  dry  sob  bursts  from  her.  "  Yet  stayl"  she 
says  suddenly,  a  feverish  light  coming  into  her  eyes.  "  I 
am  wrong.  You  shall  hear  all  the  pitiful  tale  of  my 
child's  birth;  and  make  what  evil  use  of  it  you  may.  Her 
happiness,"  solemnly,  "lies  not  in  my  hands  or  yours,  but 
in  his — your  son's — keeping.  Let  him  be  true  and  all 
the  world  false,  and  still  some  ioy  may  be  hers!" 


SIS  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  You  mean,"  begins  Lady  Bouverie  angrily,  forgetting 
her  assumed  role  of  calmness,  and  half  starting  to  her 
feet. 

"  What  I  have  said,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  slowly,  ab- 
sently. "Let  him  hear  the  entire  truth;  let  nothing  be 
withheld.  Then,  if  the  strain  be  too  great,  why,  then — " 
An  expression  of  agony  crosses  her  face,  but  she  does  not 
continue  the  sentence.  "  But,  if,  when  he  hears  all,"  she 
goes  on,  hurriedly,  "  he  still  remains  faithful,  there  is 
hope  before  heryet!"  She  ceases  abruptly,  as  though  lost 
in  some  train  of  happy  thought  too  bright  for  the  soul's 
comprehension. 

"  I  trust  I  misunderstand  yon,"  breaks  in  Lady 
Bouverie,  with  haughty  displeasure,  "but  if  you  really 
imagine  that  any  son  of  mine  would  wittingly  ally  himself 
with  dishonor  and  disgrace,  you  wofully  miscalculate,  and 
raise  within  yourself  false  hopes  that  no  earthly  power  can 
realize." 

"  And  yet  there  is  something  about  him — Dick,"  says 
Miss  Maturin  dreamily,  "  that  still  bids  me  hope.  And,  in 
truth,  madam  " — turning  to  her  with  sad  dignity — "  there 
is  that  in  the  mournful  story  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you 
which  might  well  soften  any  heart  toward  the  innocent 
chili  who  alone  survives  the  storm,  to  battle  with  the 
shame  connected  with  it.  But  I  crave  no  pity  from  you!" 
she  exclaims,  breaking  off  abruptly.  "  Hear  this  story  and 
repeat  it  to  your  son  if  you  will,  and  let  him  decide  if 
love  be  strong  enough  to  crush  the  fear  of  the  world!" 

Lady  Bouverie  flings  her  fan  upon  the  table  with  a  little 
crashing  noise,  and  leaning  back  in  her  seat,  folds  he? 
hands  tightly. 

"Now  for  your  story,"  she  says,  contemptuously. 

"Nineteen  years  ago  there  came  to  the  village  near 
which  I  and  my  sister  lived,  a  young  man.  He  called 
himself  an  artist,  and  certainly  did  some  pretty  dab- 
bling in  water-colors.  He  was,  as  I  have  said,  young; 
he  was  handsome,  in  a  womanish  fashion,  and  of  pleasing 
manners."  Here  she  ceases  speaking  for  a  moment,  aa 
though  compelled,  and  then  breaks  forth  again.  "He 
was  a  demon!"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice,  quick  with  con- 
centrated cassion.  It  is  as  though  these  last  words  are 
wrung  irom  ner  anguished  nearc. 

"Oh,  pray  be  calml"  gava  Lad?  Bouverie,  with  a  lady* 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  213 

like  shrinking  from  a  scene  of  any  kind.  "  It  is  all  very 
— er — horrible,  no  doubt;  but  let  us  be  calm,  whatever  we 
we.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  violence." 

"His  name  was  James  Belton,"  goes  on  Miss  Maturin, 
precisely  as  if  she  had  not  heard  the  other's  delicate  ap- 
peal, as  doubtless  she  had  not,  being  lost  in  miserable 
memories  of  her  own. 

"'« Tames  Belton?'"  repeats  Lady  Bouverie,  thought- 
fully, as  one  committing  something  to  memory.  "But 
why  not  'Lome/  my  dear  Miss  Maturin?  Your  niece's 
— er — assumed  name  is — " 

"  Entirely  different  from  his,"  interrupts  Miss  Maturin, 
feverishly.  "  I  tell  you  I  would  forever  have  obliterated 
his  name  from  the  earth,  if  such  a  thing  were  in  my  power; 
and  to  let  her  bear  it  would  have  seemed  to  me  like  dese- 
cration !" 

She  grows  quieter  again,  presently,  and  her  eyes  go 
back  to  their  old  monotonous  unseeing  contemplation  of 
the  carpet. 

"  Well,  he  came;  and  through  the  vicar  of  our  parish 
we  got  to  know  him.  My  sister  was  fond  of  painting,  and 
an  intimacy  sprung  up  between  them.  She  was  a  young 
girl  then,  gentle,  innocent,  devoid  of  all  knowledge  of 
intrigue.  But  he  was  a  subtle  teacher!  What  he  really 
was,  or  who,  I  never  knew  then  or  later,  except  that  the 
sun  never  shone  upon  so  fair-faced  a  fiend!  Just  at  that 
time  I  was  summoned  to  Home.  My  uncle,  an  old  man, 
lav  dying  there.  He  was  wealthy.  To  secure  greater 
advantages  to  the  sister  I  so  lored,  and,  in  truth,  because 
I  pitied  the  friendless  old  man,  I  obeyed  his  summons  and 
hastened  to  his  sick-bed.  He  lingered  longer  than  one 
would  need  for  the  commencement  and  termination  of 
many  a  love-tale  or  tragedy;  and,  when  at  last  kind  death 
released  him  and  me,  and  left  me  free  to  seek  my  English 
home  once  more,  it  was  to  find  that  time,  in  my  absence, 
had  created  tragedy  for  me,  and  that  home  was  home  no 
longer.  An  empty  nest  awaited  me!  It  was  shorn  of  its 
brightest  treasure.  The  being  who  had  been  all  in  all  to 
me  since  my  mother's  death  had  betrayed  me.  She  had 
gone  away  unwedded  with  James  Belton.  Oh.  the 
shame  of  it!"  she  cries,  in  a  voice  sharp  with  pain,  fling* 
ing  out  her  hands  in  *m  unconscious  protest  against  fata, 


%14  PICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

There  is  at  this  moment  strong  upon  her  a  crnel  reflex  ot 
that  terrible  far-off  time  when  first  dishonor  came  to  her. 

"  Very  unpleasant — really  distressing!  "  murmurs  Lady 
Bouverie.  "  You  perhaps  followed  her?" 

"  There  was  no  clew — nothing — only  a  line  or  two  from, 
her,  to  say  she  had  been  compelled  to  fly  with  him,  as  his 
uncle,  from  whom  he  had  expectations,  and  who  had  ar- 
ranged a  marriage  for  him  with  some  heiress,  would  dis- 
inherit him  were  he  to  disobey  his  orders;  so,  for  the  sake 
of  worldly  gain,  he  sacrificed  a  human  life." 

"I  beg  you  will  not  excite  yourself,"  says  Lady  Sou- 
rerie,  applying  a  dainty  smelling-bottle  to  her  aristocratic 
nose.  "It  is,  after  all,  only  a  very  ordinary  occurrence 
belonging  to  every-day  life — it  is,  I  assure  you,  though  I 
grieve  to  acknowledge  it  of  the  world  in  which  I  hold  a 
part.  Women  are  so  mistaken!" 

"  And  men  are  so  wicked! "  supplements  Miss  Maturin, 
sternly,  though  perhaps  no  woman  born  was  ever  kinder 
or  a  better  friend  to  young  men  than  she.  "  But  it  is  not 
to  moralize  that  I  so  stand  before  you.  Hear  me  to  the 
end.  When  a  whole  miserable  year  had  dragged  by  with- 
out word  or  sign  from  my  sister,  when  I  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  all  my  searchings  were  of  no  avail,  a  let- 
ter came  to  me  in  her  handwriting,  but  so  faint,  so  feeble, 
as  to  be  almost  illegible.  It  was  addressed  from  a  small 
Tillage  in  Brittany.  I  went  to  her.  That  journey,  short 
as  it  may  sound  to  you,  will  live  in  my  brain  forever- 
ay,  death  itself  will  not  quench  the  remembrance  of  itl 
You  see  my  hair!"  cries  she,  lifting  her  hands  to  her 
iron-gray  head.  "I  was  but  twenty-six  then;  yet,  when 
I  got  to  that  journey's  end,  it  was  no  less  white  than  it  ia 
now." 

"And,  when  did  you  arrive,"  asks  Lady  Bouverie,  care- 
less of  the  other's  anguish,  and  anxious  to  know  only  the 
result  of  the  meeting,  "  what  did  she  say?" 

"  She  was  dead,"  says  Miss  Matnrin. 

A  singular  silence  follows  this  solemn  announcement, 
broken  at  last  by  Miss  Maturin. 

"Quite  dead,"  she  gays,  in  a  dull  way — "dead  for  an 
hour  at  least.  Such  a  little  time  it  seemed,  but  yec  it  car- 
ried her  beyond  all  recall.  I  stooped  over  her,  and,  as  I 
did  so,  a  faint  cry  came  to  me.  I  pulled  down  the  clothes; 
the^e — there  a  baby  lav  upon  her  breast!  It  was  alive. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  215 

ft  la  impossible  to  describe  to  you  the  sense  of  comfort, 
of  hope,  of  courage,  I  sustained  when  I  heard  that  feeble 
cry  issuing,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  dead  herself.  It  was 
part  of  her — a  recognition  to  me  from  her  from  that  in- 
Tisible  untraversable  land  to  which  she  had  gone.  I  lifted 
the  baby  and  laid  her  upon  my  heart;  and  there  she  has 
lain  ever  since." 

"  No  doubt  Providence  is  all-wise,"  remarks  Lady  Bou- 
verie,  with  a  pious  but  protesting  lifting  of  her  brows; 
"but,  if  that  poor  infant  had  shared  its — er — most  incon- 
siderate mother's  grave,  how  much  better  it  would  have 
been  for  itself  and  every  one  else." 

"Not  for  mo,"  says  Miss  Maturin  slowly.  "I  thank 
God  for  the  day  when,  in  His  great  mercy,  He  gave  her 
to  me  to  be  the  joy  and  solace  of  my  life.  But  let  me 
give  you  the  termination  of  my  sorry  tale.  There  was 
nothing  amongst  my  unhappy  sister's  clothes  to  prove 
from  where  she  had  eome  to  this  foreign  land.  Her 
clothes  were  not  poor — there  was  indeed  no  sign  of  poverty 
in  all  her  surroundings;  yet  how  could  I  doubt  but  that 
she  had  been  forsaken,  abandoned,  cast  aside,  when  some 
newer  toy  arose?  In  death  she  was  lovely.  There  were  no 
marks  of  waste  or  disease.  She  had  simply  given  her  life 
for  the  child,  which  knowledge  somehow — I  can't  explain 
it — made  the  child  even  dearer  to  me.  It  was  as  if  the 
mother's  spirit,  tender,  repentant,  had  passed  into  the 
frail  creature  she  left  behind  her  when  she  sought  the 
world  of  shadows.  I  saw  her  buned.  I  then  took  the 
child;  and  shortly  afterward  I  went  abroad." 

"A  wise  precaution;  yet  here  it  has  failed,  most  fort- 
unately for  my  son,"  observes  Lady  Bouverie,  who  has 
listened  to  her  companion's  narrative  without  so  much  as 
one  throb  of  pity.  Every  point  in  the  case  she  has  care- 
fully taken  into  her  brain,  to  be  retailed  to  Dick  later  on. 
Her  purpose  in  coming  is  still  her  purpose  now — to  present 
to  her  son  such  a  succession  of  disgraceful  details  as  will 
kill  within  him  all  desire  to  ally  himself  with  any  one 
closely  connected  with  them. 

'*  Your  son  must  answer  for  himself,"  says  Miss  Maturin 
slowly. 

"My  son  will  hardly  care  to  commit  a  betist  that  must 
necessarily  separate  him  from  his  family." 

"Would  it  be  separation?" asks  Miss  Maturin,  passion' 


3JI6  DICK'S    SWEBTHEABT. 

nte  entreaty  in  her  eyes.  "  Is  society  inexorable?  She 
IB  so  beautiful — she  has  the  nature  of  a  very  saint!  Will 
not  these  things  plead  for  her?"  There  is  a  wistfulnesa 
in  her  gaze  that  might  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone,  but 
not  Lady  Bouverie's  heart. 

"She  is  like  her  mother,  I  presume,"  she  says  coldly. 
It  is  probable  that  this  is  meant  more  for  a  reminder  than 
a  sneer,  but  it  maddens  Miss  Maturin. 

"  She  is  like  all  that  is  good  and  true  and  innocent!'* 
she  cries  vehemently,  her  dark  eyes  flashing.  "  What- 
ever be  the  story  of  her  birth,  she  is  herself  a  perfect 
creature  beyond  all  price!" 

"  That  depends  on  the  price,"  says  Lady  Bouverie, 
with  an  insolent  smile;  "you  forget  she  inherits  her 
mother's  blood!" 

The  entire  coarseness  of  this  remark  hardly  reaches 
Miss  Maturin,  who  has  grown  confused  with  the  day'* 
misery;  but  that  something  has  been  said  to  disparage  her 
idol  is  clear  to  her. 

"  Whatever  her  story  may  be,"  she  says,  rising  to  her 
feet  and  advancing  toward  Lady  Bouverie,  "  I  must  insist 
that  you  will  treat  her — absent  or  present — with  respect." 

"Her  story!"  exclaims  Lady  Bouverie,  throwing  down 
the  gauntlet  at  last,  and  in  turn  pushing  back  her  chair 
and  standing  haughtily  erect.  "  I  wonder  you  are  not 
ashamed  to  allude  to  it.  Knowing " — with  a  wicked 
sneer — "this  story,  you  brought  her  here!  You  allowed 
my  son  to  make  love  to  her!  You  deliberately  planned  a 
marriage  between  them — a  marriage  with  her — her!" 

No  words  could  express  the  insolence  that  her  emphasis 
on  the  pronoun  conveys  to  Miss  Maturin. 

"  It  was  a  fraud,  a  swindle!"  goes  on  Lady  Bouverie, 
carried  away  by  her  loosed  passion,  so  long  pent  up. 
"You  threw  her  into  the  decent  society  around  you, 
knowing  well  it  would  recoil  from  her  as  from  a  pesti- 
lence, were  the  truth  known  to  it.  You  inveigled  my  son 
into  an  acquaintance  here.  You  drew  him  into  your  net, 
hoping  to  wed  him  to  this  nameless  girl,  and  so  cover  her 
ehame  by  bestowing  upon  her  the  shadow  of  a  stainless 
ancestry.  You  would  have  forced  upon  us  this  base-born 
girl  with — " 

Miss  Maturin.  laving  her  hand  suddenly  upon  Lady 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  J17 

Bouverie'g  arm,  checks  her  words  and  forces  her  back- 
ward until  once  again  she  sinks  into  her  seat. 

"Not  another  word!"  she  says  hoarsely.  "€)f  me — 
what  you  will;  but  of  her — nothing!"  She  loosens  her 
grasp  and  stands  back  a  little,  though  without  removing 
her  eyes  from  her  adversary.  "If  the  concealment  was  a 
sin,"  she  says  deliberately — "  if  it  was  a  crime  to  seek  to 
restore  that  poor  child  to  the  position  to  which  she  should 
have  been  entitled — why,  sin  I  did!  But,  mind  you,  I  do 
not  repent  it.  I  feel  no  remorse;  I  am  disheartened  only 
in  that  I  have  failed." 

."It  was  a  crime,"  declares  Lady  Bouverie,  with  slow 
yindictiveness,  "for  which  I  am  almost  certain  you  could 
be  punished  by  law." 

For  a  full  minute  Miss  Maturin's  eyes  rest  searchingly 
on  hers.  Then: 

"Go  home,  woman,"  she  says,  with  cold  contempt, 
"and  pray  upon  your  knees  to  God  to  grant  you  a  better 
mind!" — and  she  turns  from  her. 

"  Let  me  fully  understand  you,"  insists  Lady  Bouverie, 
a  dark  flush  rising  to  her  face.  "Do  you  decline  to  put 
an  end  to  this  engagement  between  my  son  and  your 
niece?  Do  you  absolutely  refuse  to  deny  him  access  to 
your  house? 

"  Absolutely,"  says  Miss  Maturin.  "Let  him  act  as 
he  will.  I  shall  neither  help  nor  hinder  him." 

"This  is  your  final  decision?" 

"It  is."    ' 

"  Then  I  shall  have  recourse  to  other  means  to  save  my 
son,"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  in  a  low  threatening  tone.  "  If 
such  means  prove  displeasing  to  you,  remember,  you 
brought  them  on  yourself." 

Silence,  and  then  a  little  rush  as  of  cold  air,  the  sound 
of  soft  footsteps  on  the  balcony  outside,  a  fresh  sweet 
voice  lilting  some  happy  lay,  and  Dolores,  stooping  daint- 
ly  to  get  beneath  the  half-raised  sash  of  the  central  win- 
dow; steps  into  the  room. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

WITH  soft  roughened  hair  and  smiling  eyes,  she  advanced 
toward  them,  some  gaudy  wild-flowers  in  her  hands.  The 
day  seems  to  have  grown  suddenly  dark,  there  is  the  scent 


218  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

of  storm  near  and  vehement  in  the  air  that  comes  with 
her  through  the  window.  The  clouds  are  massed  to- 
gether  in  a  sullen  grandeur;  there  is  a  fearful  stillness  iti 
the  shrubberies — a  strange  pause — as  if  nature  were  gather- 
ing herself  together  for  some  mighty  effort.  A  frightened 
bird  fluttering  past  the  open  space  hides  timorously  in  the 
branches  of  the  myrtles. 

Advancing  to  greet  Lady  Bouverie,  Dolores  happens  to 
glance  at  her  aunt,  and  is  so  startled  by  the  wild  look  of 
horror  upon  her  face  that  involuntarily  she  stands  still 
and  glances  irresolutely  from  Miss  Maturiu  to  her  visitor, 
and  back  again. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asks  at  last,  in  a  low  troubled  tone, 
the  nervousness  that  has  followed  her  all  day  growing  now 
almost  unbearable. 

Lady  Bouverie  turns  as  though  to  address  her;  but 
Miss  Maturin,  by  a  sudden  passionate  movement,  checks 
her. 

"  Not  a  word  to  her — not  a  word!"  she  cries,  fiercely. 

"Stay,  auntie,"  says  Dolores,  softly,  raising  one  little 
hand  and  holding  it  out  from  her  palm  way  a  with  all  the 
pretty  slender  fingers  extended  as  if  in  childish  protest. 
"  Let  Lady  Bouverie  speak.  What  can  she  have  to  say  to 
me  " — with  gentle  dignity — "  that  I  may  not  hear?"  Iler 
voice  is  sweet  and  low  and  plaintive  as  usual;  but  her  heart 
is  beating  wildly. 

"  I  have  that  to  say  that  you  must  hear,*'  says  Lady 
Bouverie  remorselessly. 

She  is  untouched  by  the  girl's  gentleness.  The  pale 
pathetic  little  face  stirs  within  her  no  feeling  of  compas- 
sion. Pity,  that  heaven-born  thing,  is  unknown  to  her. 

"Do  not  listen  to  her,  Dolores — do  not  listen!"  ex- 
claims Miss  Maturin  vehemently,  who  seems  to  have  lost 
all  self-control.  As  she  speaks,  she  steps  between  Dolores 
and  Lady  Bouverie  with  her  arms  extended  toward  the 
former,  as  though  she  would  protect  her  from  all  evil. 

"She  shall  listen!"  says  Lady  Bouverie  imperiously. 
"Take  it  well  to  heart,  madam,  that  she  has  now  to  learn 
the  miserable  truth  from  a  comparative  stranger." 

"Dolores,"  breathes  Miss  Maturin,  with  a  last  faint 
effort  at  calmness,  "  I  command  you  to  leave  the  room." 

"  And  I  command  you  to  stay,"  retorts  Lady  Bouverie, 
fixing  hei  gaze  upon  the  poor  pale  child  standing  before 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  919 

them  with  trembling  lips  and  large  bewildered  eyes. 
*'  You  have  been  too  long  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  truth. 
It  is  time  you  should  know  that  you  are  no  fit  wife  for 
any  well-born  man!" 

*'  Madam,"  says  Dolores,  drawing  up  her  slender  figure 
with  a  slow  haughtiness  that  becomes  her,  and  turning 
cold  offended  eyes  upon  Lady  Bouverie,  "  I  can  say 
nothing  to  such  a  charge  as  that.  I  have  only  to  wait 
and  hear  what  wretched  mistake  has  induced  you  to  utter 
such  cruel  insolence,  to — to  so  far  forget  yourself!'* 

Her  smile  has  long  since  faded,  and  her  color  has  fol- 
lowed it.  All  the  fresh  sweet  flush  of  youth  has  died 
away  into  that  grasping  grave  that  is  so  soon  to  swallow 
every  other  touch  of  gladness  that  she  knows.  Her  parted 
lips  are  pale  as  death  itself.  All  the  frail  scented  wild- 
ings of  the  wood  she  so  cherished  on  her  homeward  way 
now  fall  from  her  nerveless  grasp— as  all  her  fondest 
earthly  hopes  are  falling — to  lie  crusned  and  dying  at  her 
feet.  Yet  even  at  this  very  last  moment  she  rallies  a  lit- 
tle, and  some  thought  of  angry  pride  flings  a  crimson  tint 
into  her  pallid  cheeks. 

Miss  Maturin,  marking  this  sign  of  emotion  and  mis- 
taking it,  lays  her  hand  upon  the  g-rl's  arm. 

"  Go,"  she  says  with  deepest  entreaty. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  returned  Dolores,  with  a  curious  smile, 
never  removing  her  gaze  from  Lady  Bouverie. 

"  Hear  the  truth  then,"  says  Dick's  mother,  in  a  quick 
tone;  "  and  let  any,"  with  a  slow  triumphant  glance  at 
Miss  Maturin,  "deny  it  if  they  dare." 

And  then,  all  at  once,  coldly,  with  no  attempt  at 
palliation,  the  terrible  truth  has  been  laid  bare  to  one  who 
up  to  this  has  been  almost  ignorant  that  such  sad  dis- 
honors might  exist;  and  now — her  own  mother. 

Where  now  is  the  crimson  blush,  the  sweet  haughty 
glance?  Alas  for  the  happy  chi-ldish  soul  that  shall  know 
the  riches  of  its  first  unhurt  youth  never  again! 

A  sickly  pallor  overspreads  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  dilate. 
Ah,  how  true  had  been  those  sad  forebodings — those 
warnings  they  may  he  called — that  had  haunted  her  as  she 
sat  awhile  agone  beside  her  lover,  watching  the  incoming 
of  the  sad  sea-waves!  At  last  the  indefinite  shadow,  the 
intangible  cloud,  that  has  lain  so  long  and  in  such  a 
yague  fashion  uupn  her  young  life,  has  been  lifted  only  to 


220  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

lay  bare  to  her  shrinking  soul  the  hideousness  of  the  secret 
it  has  covered. 

Still  she  stands  motionless  before  them,  making  no 
effort  to  hide  her  blanched  face,  but  all  her  gracious 
brightness  seems  killed.  She  looks  tired  and  worn  and 
broken.  Making  a  violent  effort,  she  removes  her  shocked 
gaze  from  Lady  Bouverie  and  turns  desperately  to  Miss 
Maturin. 

"  It  is  not  true,  auntie — not  true! "  she  gasps,  in  a  choked 
Voice,  holding  out  her  little  hands  in  a  forlorn  fashion  t« 
her.  "Oh,  speak — speak— speak !" 

But  no  comfort  comes  to  her;  Miss  Maturin's  lips  part 
indeed,  but  only  a  groan  issues  from  them.  She  tries  to 
form  a  sentence — a  word  even — but  power  is  denied  her. 
Seeing  her  agitation,  Dolores  knows  that  hope  indeed  is 
at  end.  But  even  at  this  supreme  moment  love  sways 
her;  noting  the  agony  in  her  aunt's  face,  a  divine  pity 
fills  her  breast. 

"Ah,"  she  cries,  with  sharp  but  sweet  haste,  "do  not 
say  it!  I  know  all." 

"This  explanation  so  in iquitcusly  withheld  from  you 
for  so  long  a  time  is  necessarily  very  painful,"  says  Lady 
Bcuverie  nervously. 

For  once  her  self-possession  seems  to  have  deserted  her. 
She  appears  absolutely  afraid  to  raise  her  eyes  and  mark 
the  result  of  her  day's  work.  As  she  so  stands  with  down- 
cast lids,  battling  indignantly  with  this  absurd  new  nerv- 
ousness, she  and  Dolores  seem  to  exchange  places,  She 
is  the  culprit,  the  pale  stricken  girl  before  her  the  accuser. 

"  I  should  not,"  she  goes  on  in  a  stammering  fashion, 
"  have  felt  it  my  duty  to  be  the  one  to  waken  you  to  so 
sad  a  fact  in  your  life's  history  but  that — that — "*  She 
pauses,  at  a  loss  for  words  to  complete  her  cruel  task. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  me — say  it,"  says  the 
girl  coldly.  Even  to  herself  her  voice  sounds  strange, 
fur  off,  strained.  It  is  as  entirely  without  passion  how- 
ever as  it  is  without  hope. 

"  It  is  about  Bichard,"  replies  Lady  Bouverie,  growing 
i  .re  and  more  confused  beneath  the  steady  gaze  of  those 
lustrous  melancholy  eyes.  "The  relations  existing  be- 
tween you  and  him — of  which  however  " — hastily — "  I 
know  nothing,  not  being  taken  into  your  confidence, 
though  I  am  his  mother — "  She  breaks  off  suddenly 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  2SI 

here,  and  beats  her  foot  angrily  against  the  floor.  The 
anger  is  self-directed.  How  is  it  that  she  finds  herself  in 
her  hour  of  need  so  utterly  devoid  of  the  cold  smooth  elo- 
quence that  has  undone  so  many  a  foe? 

"  You  allude  to  our  engagement,"  says  Dolores,  very 
calmly,  though  her  heart  seems  to  have  been  caught  in  a 
•udden  cold  grasp.  "  Yes — go  on." 

"  If  it  was  an  engagement,"  says  Lady  Bouverie, 
sharply,  "as  I  have  said,  I  know  nothing — it  must  nov 
come  to  an  end.  It  must  be  an  engagement  no  longer.' 

Dolores,  lifting  her  hand  to  her  head  with  a  sudden 
passionate  movement,  runs  her  fingers  through  her  soft 
hair,  as  though  action  of  some  sort  is  forced  upon  her. 
This  little  gesture  is  full  of  the  keenest  despair.  Her 
lips  are  steady,  but  her  eyes  grow  large  and  wild.  It  is 
all  so  difficult  to  realize.  Is  it  true — true?  A  sharp  sigh 
breaks  from  her.  Is  everything  to  go  from  her — name, 
hope,  honor,  and  now  her  lover? 

"I  have  spoken  to  Richard,"  says  Lady  Bc/uverie,  in 
her  usual  chilling  tone — like  all  mean  natures,  she  has 
acquired  strength  from  the  sight  of  another's  weakness. 
"But  he  only  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  could  do 
nothing.  As  an  honorable  man,  he  persists  in  consider- 
ing himself  bound  to  you  still.  He  can  not,  of  course,  be 
the  first  to  speak  of  dissolving  the  tie  that  connects  you 
with  him,  however  willing  he  may  be  to  be  released." 

"  He  is  not  willing,"  says  the  girl,  interrupting  her, 
quietly;  "  that  I  know.  I  entreat  you  not  to  wrong  him. 
Let  me  help  you,  madam,  to  a  more  honest  solution  of 
your  trouble.  5Tou  wish  me  to  be  the  one  to  break  all 
ties  between  us,  as  he  will  not.  Is  not  that  so?  You 
dread  a  marriage  that  must  necessarily  drag  him  down 
to  the  sad,  sad  level  of  the  woman  he  loves?"  No  words 
can  describe  the  despair  of  her  calm  voice  as  she  says  this. 
"  Disgrace  is  part  of  me;  you  fear  his  sharing  it.  I,  too, 
would  prevent  it.  You  love  him,  no  doubt;  he  is  your 
son.  I,  too,  love  him;  he  is  rny  all!" 

At  this  a  low  cry  breaks  from  Miss  Maturin,  and  she 
turns  in  a  breathless  fashion  to  Lady  Bouverie;  surely  she 
will  have  mercy  now! 

"  Her  all!"  she  echoes,  passionately;  but  Dolores,  by  a 
glance,  hushes  her  once  more  into  silence. 

"  Not  a  word,  auntie,"  ghe  says*  gently.    "  This  matter 


223  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

must  now  be  arranged  between  me  and  Lady  Bouverie 
finally,  and  to  my  hurt." 

"  You  mean — "  questions  Lady  Bouverie  eagerly,  bend- 
ing forward— common  decency  is  forgotten  in  the  desire 
to  know  of  her  son's  emancipation. 

"  That  I  shall  never  marry — your  son,"  says  the  poor 
child,  bravely. 

"  I  have  your  word?"  asks  Lady  Bouverie,  pressing  the 
matter  to  its  final  tension. 

"  Would  you  have  me  swear?"  cries  Dolores,  turning 
upon  her  with  a  miserable  vehemence.  "  Hear  me,  then. 
He  is  dearer  to  me  than  to  you;  yet  I  swear  to  you  he 
shall  be  nothing  to  me — nothing — forever!"  Her  head 
droops;  her  hands,  clasped  before  her,  are  tightly  clinched. 

"  That  is  an  oath,'  says  Lady  Bouverie,  regarding  her 
fixedly — "  and  oaths  are  sacred." 

"You  fear  my  strength!"  exclaims  Dolores  once  more, 
raising  her  head.  "Fear  your  own  rather,  for  mine  is 
greater  than  yours.  For  his  sake,  I  give  up  hope  and 
love  and  all  that  makes  life  precious,  for  his  sake" — her 
voice  sinks  to  a  whisper — "  I  cast  myself  willingly  adrift!" 

A  sob  bursts  from  her  overwrought  heart,  and  she 
flings  out  her  arms  as  though  in  renunciation  of  happiness. 

"  To-day  you  feel  like  this;  but  to-morrow — " 

Lady  Bouverie  pauses.  She  has  altogether  failed  to 
fathom  the  intensity  of  the  other's  meaning. 

"  To-morrow  shall  be  as  to-day,"  says  Dolores  firmly. 
"And  now  will  you  go?" 

There  is  no  d'iscourtesy  in  her  tone — only  a  weariness 
that  makes  itself  felt.  Lady  Bouverie,  glad  of  her  dis- 
missal, knowing  that  she  bears  victory  away  with  her, 
rises  to  her  feet  and  rustles  toward  the  door;  but  the 
frou-frou  of  her  silken  skirts  breaks  the  spell  that  has 
held  Miss  Maturin. 

"  Stay,"  she  cries,  advancing  a  step  or  two  toward  Lady 
Bouverie,  as  though  she  would  forcibly  detain  her — but 
indeed  her  voice  alone  would  have  stopped  IKT — -"'stay 
and  rejoice  in  your  work!  Look  at  her — look!"  repeats 
she  fiercely,  pointing  to  the  stricken  girl,  who  with  pale 
face  but  unlowered  head  is  still  gazing  at  them.  "  See 
what  a  wreck  you  have  made!" 

And  in  truth  it  is  a  wreck.  Even  as  she  speaks, 
Dolores*  head  sinks  upo_n  her  breast,  and  a  terrible  ex- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  323 

preesion,  born  of  fear  and  undeserved  shame,  covers  her. 
Scarcely  to  be  recognized  is  the  happy  blithesome  child 
of  yesterday  in  the  forlorn  despairing  girl  of  to-day. 

"Ay,  look  and  gloat  upon  her!" goes  on  Miss  Maturin, 
smiting  her  thin  hands  together.  A  frenzy  of  rage  and 
grief  lights  up  her  somber  eyes.  "  You  have  killed  her!" 
she  cries,  "  you  have  slain  the  best  of  her!  Oh,  where 
shall  recompense  be  found?"  She  pauses,  and  glances 
eagerly  at  the  girl,  who  is  no  longer  with  them,  but  lost 
in  the  sad  imaging  of  a  parting  scene,  that  must  be  irrev- 
ocable, with  her  lover.  "Dolores,"  she  calls  gently, 
"  my  darling,  my  little  one!" 

But  no  answer  comes  to  her.  For  once  the  girl  is  deaf 
to  her  voice,  dead  to  all  but  her  misery.  Miss  Maturin 
devines  this,  and  then  all  her  passion  blazes  forth. 

"Oh,  just  God,"  cries  she,  directing  a  baleful  glance 
at  Lady  Bouverie,  "is  there  no  help  from  Thee?  How 
long,  how  long  will  it  be  before  Thy  vengeance  falls  upon 
this  woman?  Do  not  hold  Thine  hand,  I  beseech  Thee! 
Let  me  live  to  see  Thy  justice!" 

She  seems  to  have  grown  gaunter  and  grayer.  Going 
up  to  Lady  Bouverie,  she  lays  her  hand  upon  her  arm, 
and  shakes  some  sudden  fear  into  that  selfish  breast. 

"  You  shall  look  at  her!"  she  says,  turning  her  unwilling 
visitor  in  the  direction  of  Dolores.  "On  your  death-bed 
think  of  this  hour,  and  of  how  you  deliberately  ruined 
one  human  life!  All  my  days  I  have  spent  in  shielding 
her,  in  protecting  her,  in  loving  her,  for  you  at  last  to 
destroy!  She  was  my  child,  my  own,  my  very  soul.  Go, 
woman,  before  I  do  yon  some  injury!" 

She  has  her  large  powerful  white  hand  upon  Lady  Sou- 
verie's  arm  still,  and  again  she  shakes  her.  In  vain  Lady 
Bouverie  seeks  to  free  herself — 'the  grasp  only  tightens. 
There  is  indeed  a  growing  light  in  Miss  Maturin's  eyes 
that  might  be  well  termed  dangerous,  and  that  creates  a 
wild  fear  in  her  visitor's  craven  breast.  Silently  they 
gaze  upon  each  other.  Lady  Bouverie  trembles,  shrinks. 
Suddenly  a  soft  broken  voice,  scarcely  audible,  reaches 
Miss  Maturin's  ears. 

"  Lallie,  come  to  me!" 

Her  grasp  relaxes.  When  indeed  has  she  ever  been  in- 
different to  that  sweet  voice?  She  turns  away  from  Lady 
Bouverie,  as  though  almost  forgetful  of  her  presence, 


324  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

and,  falling  upon  her  knees  before  Dolores,  encircles  het 
with  her  arms. 

******  * 

Upon  the  sullen  day  a  sullen  twilight  has  fallen.  With- 
in the  deep  recesses  of  the  leafy  wood  it  is  now  almost 
dark.  Thick  shadows  lie  among  the  brandies.  There  is 
no  song  of  birds  in  all  the  air  to  break  the  unearthly  still- 
ness that  reigns  around.  A  sense  of  impending  storm 
weighs  down  everything.  For  one  sad  mind  there  vies 
with  this  a  sense  of  misery  completed,  of  a  sorrow  too 
heavy  for  assuagement. 

Already  a  sickly  moon  has  climbed  the  heavens,  a  dull 
thing,  poor  and  faint,  a  tearful  Dian,  in  harmony  with 
the  lifeless  evening.  Pale  disks  of  light  lie  upon  tree 
and  herb;  yet 

"  There  is  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon 
And  lightning  in  yon  cloud." 

To  this  dim  lonely  spot  in  the  dark  wood  Dolores  has 
hastened — as  might  some  wounded  creature — on  that  first 
awful  awakening  to  the  fatal  truth.  Here  she  has  come 
to  mourn  in  silence  and  secrecy  over  her  wrecked  life, 
over  that  greatest  of  all  losses — loss  of  hope. 

Flinging  herself  face  downward  upon  the  grassy  sward, 
with  her  sad  arms  outstretched  and  her  little  delicate 
fingers  clutching  convulsively  at  the  long  tangles  of  the 
rank  verdure,  as  though  in  a  perfect  agony  of  shame  and 
grief,  she  gives  herself  up  to  the  bitterest  despair.  One 
intangible  watery  moonbeam  is  lying,  as  though  touched 
by  her  grief,  upon  her  half-bared  arms,  another  as  if  in 
benison  upon  her  forlorn  little  head.  But  life's  moons  or 
suns,  its  warmths,  its  chills,  can  be  nothing  to  her  again 
forever.  The  vague,  wild,  simple  joy  of  living  is  gone 
from  her.  There  is  only  the  bitterness  of  death  remain- 
ing, and  desire  to  escape  and  cover  her  face  and  hide 
from  all  her  kind. 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 

A  joy  has  taken  flight, 
Prefih  spring  and  summer  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 

No  more — oh,  never  .  u>rel" 

Thus  woe-begone  she  rests  at  full  length  upon  the 
ground,  her  little  shapely  head,  wind-tossed  and  rough* 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  225 

ened,  lowered  to  the  earth — the  pretty  proud  head  that 
only  yesterday  carried  itself  so  sweetly  and  with  such  a 
natural  dignity!  Now  and  then  u  moan  breaks  from  her, 
a  shattered  prayer,  a  dry  sob  of  keenest  anguish. 

"0  kind  Father — Father  of  us  all — have  mercy — hare 
pity!  Must  everything  be  given  up?  This  thing  per- 
haps, sweet  Lord?  But  yet  not  this?  .Oh,  leave  me 
something!  Thou,  who  art  all  love,  leave  me  my  little 
share  of  worldly  affection!  Surely  I  need  not  surrender 
all,  name  and  fame  and  lover  too!" 

Is  her  prayer  answered? 

There  is  a  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  on  the  cool 
sweet  grass,  a  smothered  exclamation;  then  two  strong 
arms,  mighty  with  this  love  she  has  been  imploring, 
stoop  to  her,  weave  themselves  round  her;  and  Bouverie, 
lifting  her  bodily  from  the  ground,  turns  her  face  to  his. 
Seeing  her  lying  so,  all  sad  and  disconsolate,  the  mourn- 
ful certainty  has  been  borne  in  upon  him  that  she  has 
been  lying  thus  because  her  heart  is  broken. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

As  Dick  lifts  his  sweetheart  in  his  arms,  her  expres- 
sion changes.  She  shrinks  from  him,  and  makes  a  vafn 
effort  to  reloase  herself  from  the  loving  bondage  of  his 
embrace. 

"  Oh,  not  you,"  she  says,  in  a  little  panting  whisper — 
"not  you,  of  all  people!  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that 
it  should  never  be  you  again." 

"To  comfort  you?"  asks  he,  terminating  her  sentence. 
"If  you  are  in  trouble,  who  would  there  be  but  me  to 
help  you?  Your  trouble  must  always  be  mine,  my  owe. 
sweetheart!" 

He  tightens  his  clasp  round  her;  but  she,  pushing  him 
from  her,  lays  her  hands  outspread  upon  his  breast,  and 
in  her  lovely  eyes  there  grows  a  very  agony  of  protest. 
Seeing  her  so  persistent,  he  releases  her  gently,  and  let& 
her  stand  back  from  him  a  step  or  two.  ^ 

"  It  is  useless;  it  must  all  end  now,"  she  says  faintly, 
and  again  hides  her  face  within  her  hands. 

"  Death  alone  can  end  some  things,"  returns  he,  slowly, 
c  but  Time  is  more  merciful.  It  can  put  a  finish  ev«n  to 


226  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

such  grief  as  yours,  my  own;  but,  as  for  our  love,  neither 
Time  nor  Death  can  put  an  end  to  that!  It  will  go  with 
us  through  life,  and  to  the  grave,  and  thence  to  the  world 
beyond." 

When  lying  in  passionate  pain  upon  the  fresh  sward, 
s>he  had  closed  her  fingers  on  some  tender  grasses.  Now 
»he  turns  them  listlessly  in  her  cold  hand,  and  gazes  at 
them  as  one  might  when  considering  some  question  far 
remote  from  them. 

"  She  was  right,"  she  says  at  last — "  your  mother,!  mean. 
For  all  the  days  of  your  life  you  must  speak  to  me  never 
again.  It  was  terrible — all  that  she  said;  she  called  me 
base-born — a  cruel  word!"  She  shivers  as  though  with 
intense  cold,  and  clasps  her  fingers  tightly  together. 
"Base-born!"  she  repeats,  almost  unconsciously.  "Yes 
— yes,  it  was  a  cruel  word!" 

"  Curse  her!"  says  the  young  man,  with  sudden  fierce 
passion,  gazing  at  the  pale  face  before  him,  the  stricken 
glance,  the  drooping,  hopeless  figure. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  cries  she,  piteously;  "  she  is  your  mother! 
Even  as  to  mine,  were  she  alive,  I  would  not  so  speak;  and 
mine — "  She  pauses  abruptly.  "  But  to  the  dead  there 
is  only  forgiveness,"  she  says,  brokenly;  and  then — 
"You  know  all?  You  have  heard?" 

"Yes,  all!  That  you  should  have  heard  it,  and  from 
such  a  source,  is  what  I  shall  never  forgive.  I  have  told 
her  so." 

"  Your  mother?"  in  a  little  thrilling  whisper. 
"The  relationship  has  ceased  to  exist  for  me,"  returns 
he,  with  a  curious  laugh.  "  But  of  course  I  understand 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  give  you  an  answer.  Yes;  I  have 
told  Lady  Bouverie  that  I  shall  never  forgive  her  conduct 
to  yon." 

"  I  am  twice  unfortunate,"  says  Dolores,  mournfully. 
"  Besides  my  own  intolerable  load,  must  I  also  bear  the 
knowledge  that  I  have  created  discord  between  a  mother 
and  her  son?" 

"  Nothing  matters,"  answers  the  young  man,  steadily 
pressing  her  fingers  to  his  lips,  "except  what  personally 
concerns  you.  Forget  the  rest,  and  be  assured  that  Lady 
Bouverie  can  manage  excellently  without  either  you  ci- 
rri e.  My  beloved,  how  you  must  have  suffered!" 

His  tone  has  changed.     Now  there  is  thrown  into  it  a 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  227 

great  wave  of  the  most  tender  sympathy,  before  it  had 
been  hard  and  somewhat  cynical. 

"There  is  no  need  to  talk  of  that,"  says  she,  with  a 
passionate  attempt  at  calm;  "do  not  talk  of  it!  There 
is  only  one  thing  now  for  me  to  say  to  you;  I  say  it — I 
give  you  back  your  troth."  She  turns  to  him,  pale  and 
rigid,  and  compels  herself  to  meet  his  eyes. 

"  You  will  give  me  what  I  will  not  accept — a  poor 
gift!  "  returns  he,  as  pale  as  herself.  "  Well,  what  else?" 

"  All  is  over  between  us,"  says  the  poor  child,  sadly, 
her  sweet  face  looking  worn  and  changed  in  the  dull 
moonlight.  "Oh,  do  not  make  things  harder  to  me 
than  they  are!  You  will  give  me  up?  " 

"  Never! "  answers  Bouverie  coldly.  "  Let  that  be  per- 
fectly understood  between  us.  Never!  I  have  your  prom- 
ise to  be  my  wife;  I  shall  hold  you  to  it  till  the  last  day 
of  my  life." 

"  Then  you  will  leave  all  the  pain,  the  trouble,  to  me?" 
says  Dolores,  reproachfully.  "  Ah,  how  unkind  that  is! 
Well,  I  give  you  up,  at  least." 

"  That  you  can  not  do,"  returns  he,  quickly. 

"  What,  do  you  think  I  am  not  stronger  than  yon?" 
He  lays  his  hands  lightly  on  her  slender  shoulders,  as 
though  to  prove  to  her  the  difference  between  them. 
"Dolores,  do  you  think  you  could  live  without  me?"  he 
asks,  softly;  and  with  the  knowledge  full  upon  her  that 
she  lies  beyond  redemption  in  her  answer,  she  murmurs, 
"  Yes,"  her  eyes  on  his. 

"  Say  that  again,"  says  Bouverie,  holding  her  a  little 
way  from  him  that  he  may  the  better  mark  the  changing 
of  her  eyes.  "  Say  it  now." 

"  Yes — yes — yes!"  cries  she  sharply;  but  the  tension  is 
too  great  for  her.  She  falls  forward  upon  his  breast  and 
bursts  into  tears. 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  without  you,  you  cruel  child,"  re- 
turng  he,  caressing  her  with  a  careful  love;  "  and,  after 
all,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it."  He  says  this  last  softly, 
pressing  her  little  silken  head  against  his  breast. 

But  her  despair  is  too  strong  to  admit  of  comfort  even 
from  the  one  beloved — nay,  the  very  sweetness  of  the  com- 
fort offered  seems  only  to  add  to  the  poignancy  of  her  grief. 

"Oh  that  we  two  were  dead!"  she  cries,  her  pent-up 
sobs  breaking  forth.  "Now — together!" 


228  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

There  is  a  sudden  trembling  of  her  slight  limbs;  in- 
stinctively she  clings  to  him.  To  be  buried,  lost,  forgot- 
ten beyond  the  ken  of  all  humanity  is  the  one  sweet  long- 
ing that  remains  to  her  and  with  him.  If  they  might 
only  be  permitted  to  share  this  everlasting  exile — to  go 
together  whither  no  man  may  follow,  past  tear  and  an- 
guish and  despair  and  all  desire! 

"  I  wish  we  were  dead  together  to-day, 

Lost  sight  of,  hidden  away  out  of  sight, 

Clasped  and  clothed  in  the  cloven  clay, 
Out  of  the  world's  way,  out  of  the  light, 

Out  of  the  ages  of  worldly  weather, 

Forgotten  of  all  men  altogether 

As  the  world's  first  dead  taken  wholly  away, 
Made  one  with  death,  filled  full  of  the  night!" 

"  There  is  something  as  good  as  death  before  us,"  says 
Bouverie,  steadily;  "there  is  life — a  long  life  of  happi- 
ness, I  hope  and  believe!  Let  no  false  suspicions  of  evil 
mar  the  perfection  of  it." 

"  The  perfection!  Where  can  that  come  in?  You — you 
pretend  too  much!"  exclaims  she,  with  a  little  burst  of 
irritable  passion  born  of  her  acute  suffering.  S(  Perfec- 
tion can  never  more  apply  to  anything  connected  with 
me.  I  am  tainted!" 

She  raises  her  head.  "  White  like  a  white  rose  "  is  the 
face  to  which  she  compels  his  regard.  But,  in  spite  of 
all  her  self-control,  her  lips  quiver.  The  sight  of  those 
quivering  lips  is  torture  to  him. 

"I  must  ask  you  not  to  talk  like  that,"  he  says  sternly. 
"  I  regard  you  now — I  have  regarded  you  for  some  time 
— as  nothing  less  than  my  wife.  I  shall  not  listen  to  even 
one  derogatory  word  uttered  about  her." 

His  tone  subdues  her  for  the  moment,  but  after  a  little 
mental  confusion,  the  faithful  spirit  within  her  fragile 
body  reasserts  itself. 

"  Your  wife  I  shall  never  be,"  she  says,  softly,  but  de- 
cisively. There  is  an  exquisite  pain  in  her  face  and  voice. 
Her  small  fingers,  interlaced,  are  crushed  against  each 
other  until  a  white  outline  is  marked  upon  her  hands. 
"  Beloved,  would  I  do  you  such  an  injury  as  to  let  you 
wed  one  who — whose  birth — " 

"  Be  silent,  Dolores!"  cries  the  young  man,  suddenly. 

"  But,  indeed,"  sayi  she,  weeping  bitterly  again,  "  I 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  829 

san  not  be  silent.  It  must  be  said;  and  it  will  be,  too— 
J.  not  by  you  or  me,  at  least  by  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Alas,  dear  heart,  how  you  yourself  recoil  from  the  bare 
mention  of  it!" 

"You  wrong  me  very  much,"  says  Bouverie,  with  deep 
emotion.  "I  silenced  you  only  lest  your  word  should 
hurt  yourself.  I  hold  you  so  above  taint  or  shame  of  any 
kind,  that  I  defy  the  world  to  find  a  flaw  in  you."  He 
turns  to  her  and  encircles  her  with  his  arms.  "  My  stain- 
less lily,"  he  says,  laying  his  cheek  to  hers,  "my  little 
queen! 

The  moon  even  in  its  saddened  state  has  grown  older, 
more  brilliant;  from  over  the  hills  a  faint  wind  is  come  to 
them.  A  rushing  rivulet  is  at  play  somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  whole  world  around  seems  peaceful,  save 
only  these  two  hearts.  The  coming  storm  is  still  so  dis- 
tant as  to  be  unimportant.  It  may  and  it  may  not  be,  it 
is  unsure;  but  the  misery  of  the  sure  humanity  is  cruelly 
apparent.  The  moon  is  slowly  turning  the  twilight  into 
night,  yet  still  day  lingers — a  most  grievous  day,  better 
lost  in  forgetfulness,  but  still  alive. 

"Love,  will  you  listen  to  me?"  says  Dolores,  softly, 
holding  out  her  two  cold  hands  to  Bouverie.  "  I  beseech 
you  to  listen!  It  is  my  irrevocable  decision  that  we  must 
part;  so  hear  me!  It  is  my  own  decision." 

"  And  you  are  mine.  Your  decision  is,  therefore,  only 
partly  your  own,  I  have  a  share  in  it.  And —  No;  1 
will  not  listen  to  it!" 

"  Your  mother  has  my  promise,"  says  the  girl,  with  a 
sad  little  smile.  "I  gave  it  to  her  willingly,  for  your 
sake." 

"  My  mother!" 

"  Yes.  She — she  was  not  altogether  ungentle  with 
me,"  says  Dolores.  "I  owe  her  something  for  that; 
but —  Nay,  never  mind  the  'but,'"  she  breaks  out  im- 
patiently. "  She  was  right  in  all  that  she  said.  We 
might  both  have  repented  afterward  when  it  was  too  late." 

"Speak  for  yourself.     I  should  not." 

"  Do  not  let  us  go  into  it."  she  interrupts  gently.  "  It 
can  not  be  altered  now.  Be  merciful  to  me,  Dick,  and 
accept  this  decision  of  mine." 

"  Are  you  merciful  to  me?" 

"lam — lam  indeed!"  saya  she  pitifully.     "  Ah,  be- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

\ieve  it,  I  would  go  further  still  if  I  could,  and  bear  all 
the  pain  of  parting;  but  I  know,"  gazing  at  him  with  a 
wistful  tenderness,  "  that  that  is  denied  me — you  too 
must  endure!" 

"That  is  nothing,"  declares  Bouverie.  "  Forget  that; 
it  is  my  business  to  see  that  you  do  not  carry  out  your 
imad  scheme.  It  seems  a  simple  thing  to  you  to  abandon 
me,  but  how  if  I  will  not  be  abandoned?" 

"Your  strength  is  insufficient,"  says  the  girl,  sol- 
emnly. "  You  must  submit." 

There  is  a  nobility  in  her  look  which  silences  him  for 
the  moment.  An  exquisite  flush  lights  up  her  face,  and 
her  fingers,  lifted  to  her  breast,  lie  there  convulsively,  as 
though  to  stay  the  throbbing  of  the  heart  beneath. 

"Must  I?"  says  Bouverie  unsteadily. 

She  mistakes  these  words  for  a  yielding  on  his  part, 
and  the  flush  dies  upon  her  cheeks  and  her  pale  lips  grow 
paler. 

"  At  last  you  understand,"  she  says,  raising  her 
blanched  face  and  sorrowful  eyes  to  his — "at  last!  Yes; 
it  must  be  so!"  Then  all  at  once  her  calmness  quite  for- 
sakes her;  she  lies  like  a  broken  lily  in  his  arms.  "  Oh, 
love,  oh,  love!"  she  murmurs  faintly,  clinging  to  him  as 
though  she  feels  the  final  parting  is  indeed  at  hand. 

He  returns  her  embrace  only  m  part,  his  mind  having 
gone  to  other  matters. 

"  You  speak  lightly  of  our  ended  love,"  he  says,  coldly. 
"  But  still  there  is  something  to  be  said.  Suppose  some 
happy  chance  should  lift  this  cloud  that  hangs  above 
you,"  in  his  soul  he  does  not  believe  that  any  such  blessed 
uplifting  is  possible,  "  suppose  it  should  be  so.  How 
then?" 

"Ah,  then!" 

She  has  caught  the  infection  he  desired.  She  looke 
transfigured.  He  knows  now  to  a  certainty  that  the  hap- 
piness of  her  life  depends  upon  the  improbable  chance 
he  has  described  to  her.  Her  lips  tremble,  a  great  wave 
of  color  sweeps  across  her  face,  lingers  a  second  or  so,  and 
then  disappears,  as  harsh  sense  reasserts  itself,  only  to 
leave  her  whiter  than  before. 

"  You  are  cruel,"  she  says,  pathetically. 

Wherais  the  use  of  answering  her?  Is  not  the  whole 
thing  cruel?  His  arms  still  hojd  her  against  a  heart  that 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  231 

i«  as  surely  breaking  as  her  own.  Night  is  descending,  a 
somber  threatening  night  made  only  more  menacing  by 
the  dull  moon  that  betrays  it.  Beyond  are  the  stately 
pines,  and  there  "  where  the  moonnse  breaks  the  dusky 

§ray,"  are  the  tremulous  beeches,  their  pale  young  leaves 
rooping  beneath  the  warm  breathings  of  the  circumamb- 
ient air. 

Placing  his  hand  gently  beneath  her  chin,  he  lifts  her 
face  and  gazes  silently  upon  it.  What  a  transformation 
is  here!  The  pretty  lips  erstwhile  so  prone  to  laughter 
are  now  closed,  yet  eloquent  with  a  silent  melancholy. 
Her  drenched  eyes,  with  their  tears  still  lying  heavily  on 
the  long  dark  lashes,  speak  to  him  in  mournful  numbers. 
It  is  a  most  grievous  thing  to  see  her  standing  thus, 
crushed,  disconsolate,  dishonored. 

"I  have  listened  to  you;  now  hear  me,"  he  says,  sud- 
denly, though  without  suspicion  of  haste.  "  All  that  you 
have  said  to  me  counts  just  as  nothing.  We  stand  to-day 
as  we  stood  yesterday.  You  are  my  affianced  wife  now, 
AS  you  were  then." 

She  would  have  spokeu  again,  but  he  prevents  her. 

"No,  not  a  word,"  he  says  quickly.  "I  will  hear  no 
further  protest.  It  is  useless.  Time  will  prove  to  you 
that  my  will  is  stronger  than  yours.  Yet,  believe  me, 
dearest,  it  is  the  one  time  in  our  lives  in  which  I  shall 
refuse  to  defer  to  you.  Come — let  me  take  you  home  I 
This  trouble  has  been  too  much  for  you!  " 

"  Yes;  I  will  go  home,"  says  the  girl  monotonously. 

"You  will  let  me  see  you  again  this  evening;  I  must 
come  up  to  Greylands  to  speak  to  your  aunt.  It  will  be 
better  that  we  should  aee  each  other  again."  There  is 
anxiety  in  his  tone. 

"  Whatever  happens,  however  it  may  be,  you  will  be 
kind  to  auntie? "says  Dolores,  laying  her  hand  with  a 
feverish  earnestness  upon  his  arm.  "You  will  not  re- 
proach her?  Think — think  how  she  has  suffered,  and  all 
for  me.  Oh,  if  you  have  loved  me,  think  of  that! " 

"  As  I  do  love  you,  I  shall  think  always  of  what  is  most 
pleasing  to  you,"  returns  Bouverie.  "  But  in  truth  I 
should  be  good  to  Miss  Maturin  irrespective  of  my  love 
for  you,  if  only  because  of  the  affection  I  bear  her;  and 
shall  I,  your  loTer4  not  honor  her  the  more  for  the  tend** 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

ness  she  has  displayed  toward  you.  But  ansvrer  me.  i 
shall  see  you  again  to-night?  " 

"  Yes,"  after  a  moment's  pause. 

After  all,  another  meeting,  another  hour  of  agony  is 
not  very  much  when  added  to  the  great  whole!  And — 
and  it  need  not  affect  her  resolve  in  any  way.  And  to  see 
him  once  again  for  the  last  time!  There  is  a  meagre  grain 
of  sweetness  in  the  misery  of  this  thought.  She  might 
indeed  bring  him  something  to  keep — to  remember  her  by 
in  all  the  coming  years.  Death,  when  courted,  is  reluctant; 
and  there  will  probably  be  many  years. 

"  Yes,"  she  says  again  faintly. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"I  TELL  you  it  will  kill  her!"  says  Miss  Maturin 
vehemently. 

She  is  standing  in  her  boudoir,  looking  pale  and  gaunt 
after  the  day's  exhaustion.  The  little  ormolu  clock  upon 
the  mantel-piece  is  on  the  stroke  of  ten. 

"  Can  I  see  her?"  asks  Bouverie,  with  downcast  eyes. 

"No,  I  think  not;  it  will  be  better  to  leave  her  to  her- 
self. She  knew  you  were  coming  this  evening,  and,  if 
she  wishes  to  see  you,  she  will  come  of  her  own  accord, 
without  your  sending  for  her.  She  looked  feverish,  and 
thoroughly  undone.  I  hope  she  has  gone  to  sleep. 
Extreme  mental  depression  often  produces  unconscious- 
ness." 

"  But  she  promised  to  see  me.  She  may  think  it  strange 
my  not  coming  until  now,  at  so  late  an  hour,"  says  the 
young  man,  nervously;  "  but  so  many  things  prevented 
me.  There  were  final  matters  to  be  arranged." 

"  You  have  left  your  home,  then,  for  good !" 

"Forever.  I  shall  not  return  there  again;  that  is 
decided.  I  wish  to  say  nothing  against  my  mother,  bnt 
to  live  beneath  her  roof  again  would  be  an  impossibility." 

"She  is  a  fiend!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  without  the 
faintest  trace  of  excitement,  bnt  with  a  certain  cold 
conviction.  "  I  am  glad  you  have  decided  on  shaking  off 
her  influence." 

"As  for  the  influence,"  returns  Bouverie,  "it  is  hardly 


DICK'S    SWEKTHEABT.  233 

worth  speaking  about;  nor  is  she.  Let  us  talk,  instead, 
of  the  one  thing  who  is  all  the  world  to  us;  let  us  talk  of 
Dolores!" 

"There  is  so  much  to  be  said,  anrT  yet  so  little,"  says 
Miss  Maturin,  walking  restlessly  to  "and  fro.  "You 
know  all  the  first  part  of  her  wretched  story;  I  need  not 
recount  it  to  you;  bat  there  are  some  later,  some  minor 
details,  that  you  alone  may  hear;  they  are  not  for  the 
satisfaction  of  vulgar  curiosity.  "With  Dolores'  birth  my 
story  to  Lady  Bouverie  ended." 

"You  made  some  effort  to  find  her  mother?" 

"  One  unceasing  effort  that  filled  my  life  for  two  long 
years.  At  last  I  found  a  clew,  as  you  have  heard  from 
your  mother;  a  letter  came  to  me.  You  know  of  my 
journey  to  Brittany,  my  adoption  of  my  dear  girl,  and 
our  long  wanderings  in  foreign  lands." 

"What  I  do  not  know,"  says  Dick,  "is  your  subse- 
quent knowledge  of  Dolores'  father." 

"  Ay,"  says  Miss  Maturin;  "  he  came  to  me  prior  to 
my  leaving  England  for  many  years  with  my  young  charge, 
and  demanded  an  interview.  I  refused  it.  Eemorse 
doubtless  stirred  within  him;  but  it  was  remorse  that 
came  too  late.  I  could  not  entertain  it.  My  whole  soul 
revolted  from  the  man.  When  I  looked  at  my  little  in- 
nocent, lying  in  my  arms  speechless,  unable  to  utter  a 
protest  for  herself,  I  enlisted  myself  upon  her  side  and 
swore  I  would  defend  her  from  him  at  any  risk.  I  left 
home  abruptly,  carrying  my  child  with  me.  Then  there 
came  a  letter  from  him.  It  was  forwarded  to  me — a  mad 
letter,  full  of  grief — grief  when  she — the  woman  who 
should  have  been  honored,  but  was  now,  by  his  willful  act, 
Dishonored — lay  moldering  in  her  shroud!  He  asked  me, 
What  of  his  child?  It  was  evident  he  had  heard  of  my 
sister's  death;  but  of  the  child  he  knew  nothing,  except 
that  I  had  taken  it.  I  answered  him  that  tke  child  was 
dead!"  She  ceases,  abruptly,  and,  sinking  back  in  her 
chair,  sits  for  a  moment  rigid,  her  hands  clasped  tightly 
in  her  lap.  "Dead  as  her  mother!"  she  says;  then  slow- 
ly— "  That  was  the  message  I  sent  him.  Dead  as  the  girl 
whose  death  lay  at  his  own  door!  It  was  n  lie!  But  what 
of  that?  You  think  I  regret  it/  No — a  thousand  times 
qo!  After  all  these  years,  1  would  do  again  now  as  I  did 
then.  I  would  rescue  the  ciiild  at  any  price  from  the  vile 


B1XJK8    SWKETHEAR-r. 

hands  of  one  whose  soul  was  blackened  by  a  crime 
redemption!" 

"  You  have  never  heard  of  him  since?" 

"Never!  Dolores  knows  .nothing  of  him.  She  be- 
lieves him  dead  as  her  mother;  so  he  is  to  her.  Whether 
he  still  roams  the  earth,  or  has  gone  to  meet  his  just  re- 
ward in  the  land  beyond  the  grave,  is  unknown  to  me." 

She  is  silent  for  a  little  while;  and  Bouverie  does  noi 
care  to  interrupt  her,  being  lost  in  an  absorption  of  hig 
own  creating.  When  two  minutes,  scarcely  noticed  by 
either  of  them,  have  died  into  the  past,  she  speaks  again. 

*'  What  horrible  evil  has  fallen  into  our  days,"  she  says 
— "  hers  and  mine,  I  mean!" 

"And  mine,"  observes  Bouverie,  "  for  her  sake,  though 
I  will  not  acknowledge  that  evil  will  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  You  are  a  faithful  soul,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  in  a  low 
tone;  "and  yet  I  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that  you  are  free. 
You  may  go;  you  may  drop  us  honorably  into  your  past; 
no  stigma  will  attach  itself  to  you,  no  touch  of  shame 
will  haunt  you  for  it.  Go,  whilst  there  is  yet  timel" 

"  Pshaw  I"  exclaims  Dick.  "  What  do  you  take  me  for? 
Am  I  a  fool?  Am  I  likely  to  resign  for  a  paltry  reason 
the  best  gift  that  God  can  bestow?  Even  if  I  would,  I 
could  not  give  up  Dolores;  and,  as  for  all  you  have  said, 
why,  it  counts  to  me  as  nothing,  but  only  as  an  incentive 
to  be  better  to  her  than  even  I  meant  to  be!" 

Miss  Maturin,  rising,  suddenly  turns  upon  him  a  gaze 
illumined  by  a  very  immediate  knowledge  of  his  worth. 

"I  have  done  well  by  her,"  she  says  softly.  She  con- 
tinues to  regard  him  with  extreme  tenderness  for  a  few 
minutes;  then,  as  though  recollection  returns  to  her  of 
its  own  accord  and  without  encouragement,  she  starts  and 
her  eyes  falter  before  his.  "  Resistance  is  useless,"  she 
jays.  "  We  are  not  strong  enough  to  fight  the  world. 
And  yet  submission  will  be  her  death !  She  will  die,"  says 
Miss  Maturin,  in  a  cold  constrained  voice.  "  She  is  not 
strong,  and  the  pressure  will  be  too  much  for  her." 

"Not  when  she  hasn't  to  bear  it  alone,"  interposes 
Dick  quietly.  "  I  flatter  myself  I  can  endure  a  good  deal 
of  pressure.  She  shall  feel  none  when  I  am  near.  Can  I 
see  her  to-morrow  early?" 

"I  don't  know" — uncertainly;  "she  looked  so  white, 
so  still,  go  forlorn,  when  she  bade  me  good-night  that  J 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  £S£ 

•carcely  know  what  to  think.  She  faels  this  thing,"  cries 
Miss  Maturin,  with  a  sudden  passion  of  grief,  "more 
than  you  or  I  may  know!  I  tell  you  it  will  kill  her!  Oh, 
what  forgiveness  can  be  accorded  her  who  first  destroyed 
the  righteous  gladness  of  her  soul?'' 

"  None,"  answers  Bouvene  sternly. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  Dolores,"  says  Miss  Maturin, 
•nbduing  her  active  grief  in  part,  and  yet  giving  her  visit- 
or an  even  more  certain  knowledge  of  her  misery  in  her 
•nforced  quiet  than  in  her  outspoken  despair.  "  She  is 
cast  down,  lowered  to  the  earth.  She  is  indeed 

" '  All  bereft, 

As  when  some  tower  doth  fall. 
With  battlements  and  wall 
And  gates  and  bridge  and  all, 
And  nothing  left ! ' 

There  is  nothing,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  who  has  made  her 
pitiful  quotation  half  unconsciously,  as  one  might  who 
has  been  thinking  of  it  and  dwelling  on  it — also  uncon- 
sciously— for  many  an  hour. 

"  There  is  myself,"  says  Bouverie,  not  so  much  assert- 
ively as  with  a  sort  of  eager  pathos. 

"Ah,  yes,  there  is  you!'?  she  sighs  heavily.  "Well, 
you  will  be  true,"  she  says  presently.  "  Let  us  wait  and 
see  what  a  day  may  bring  forth." 

"I  think,  if  I  could  see  her — "  begins  Bouverie,  re- 
flectively, his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "  But,  as  you  say,  it 
is  too  late,  and  she  may  perhaps  be  sleeping.  Well,  till 
to-morrow  then!" 

He  stretches  out  his  hand,  and  Miss  Maturin  clasps  it 
eagerly. 

"  To-morrow!"  she  echoes,  faintly. 

Leaving  the  room,  he  closes  the  door  after  him  with 
extreme  gentleness;  some  other  door  upon  this  corridor 
may  hide  behind  it  his  sad  little  love,  and  to  rouse  her 
again  to  a  quick  remembrance  of  her  grief  would  be  hor- 
rible. In  accordance  with  this  train  of  thought,  he  treads 
the  polished  floor  lightly,  going  with  down-bent  head  and 
steps  so  carefully  picked  as  to  suggest  the  idea  of  sick- 
ness somewhere;  and  truly  sick  at  heart  she  must  be, 
sleeping  or  waking. 

Far  away  in  the  dim   distance  a  lamp  is  burning;  it  v« 


236  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

so  remotely  placed  as  to  be  almost  without  reflection  m 
this  corridor;  but  ite  feebleness  is  amply  compensated  for 
by  the  rays  of  a  liquid  moon  straying  through  the  oriel 
window.  Just  now 

*'•  Mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both," 

has  reached  her  highest  po\nt  of  glory.  In  a  cloudless 
realm  she  reigns  supreme,  surrounded  by  the  tremulous 
stars,  which  pale  and  scintillate  before  her  presence, 
throwing  out  soft  lusters  of  orange-green  and  opal. 

Bouverie  stands  for  a  moment  to  gaze  upon  the  eloquent 
heavens  and  to  drink  in  some  quietude  from  the  silence 
and  calmness  of  the  night.  He  is  fast  losing  himself  in 
an  endless  reverie,  when  a  slight  sound,  coming  from  the 
extremity  of  the  corridor,  rouses  him  from  his  dreaming. 

Slowly  recovering  himself,  he  turns,  as  though  to  as- 
certain the  cause  of  his  disturbance.  Eaising  his  hand 
to  his  brow  to  ward  off  the  strong  moonlight,  he  seeks  to 
pierce  the  darkness  beyond.  It  divides.  Something 
comes  from  out  it  with  vague  uncertain  steps,  with  a 
strange  lingering.  He  leans  forward.  It  is  an  angei,  her 
spirit,  or — 

Slowly  she  comes  to  him  over  the  shining  boards,  in 
her  white  clinging  draperies,  with  loosened  hair  and  with 
sad  eyes,  and  cheeks  all  pale  and  wan.  Oh,  sorrowful 
Dolores!  She  lays  her  hands  in  his.  Diana's  brilliant 
fire  lights  up  her  mournful  face  and  tints  the  darkness  of 
her  eyes. 

"  How  long  you  have  been!"  she  says  gently,  calling  up 
a  forlorn  little  smile  that  only  makes  more  complete  the 
utter  misery  of  her  appearance. 

"  Long,  darling!" 

"Yes;  I  have  been  waiting — waiting!  I  knew  I  should 
gee  you  as  I  passed  by  here;  and  I  could  not  rest  until  I 
had  spoken  to  you.  I  told  you — I  promised  you  to  meet 
you  again  to-night." 

"  I  remembered;  but  I  hoped  you  had  given  my  rendez- 
TOUS  to  sleep,  I  fancied  you  in  your  bed  an  hour  ago," 
says  the  young  man  tenderly. 

How  fair  she  looks,  how  frail — too  frail  to  battle  with 
the  waves  surging  beneath  her  feet.'  Her  hands  are  lying 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  237 

passively  in  hie;  and  now  he  knows  that  one  of  them  is 
•losed  tightly  upon  something. 

"Oh,  no,  I  was  not  sleeping!"  she  says,  in  a  subdued 
yoice.  "There  were  so  many  things  to  think  of — so 
many  unhappy  things" — with  a  sigh.  "But  there  was 
another  thing  that  kept  me  sleepless  too — the  desire  to 
see  you  and  give  you  this."  She  glances  at  her  closed 
hand,  which  she  has  withdrawn  from  his.  "I  found  it 
to-day,  after  you  left  me;  and  I  remembered  how  you 
had  once  said  it  always  reminded  you  of  me."  Her  lips 
quiver.  She  slowly  unfolds  her  fingers,  and  lets  him  see 
a  drooping  violet,  white  us  herself,  lying  upon  her  palm. 
"  It  is  an  odd  time  for  it  to  bloom,  is  it  not?"  she  says 
wistfully,  without  raising  her  eyes — indeed  they  were  too 
heavily  charged  with  tears  to  allow  of  her  showing  them. 

For  a  little  while  they  both  stand  gazing  silently  upon 
the  violet,  which  is  large  and  sweet  as  it  might  be  in  its 
usual  birth-month,  though  in  reality  it  is  born  out  of  due 
time. 

"  It  will  help  to  remind  yon  of  me,"  she  says  at  last, 
as  though  following  out  some  thought  known  to  her  alone. 

"  So  it  will,  though  I  sha'n't  need  anything  when  you 
are  near,"  returns  Bouverie,  attempting  to  give  a  light- 
ness to  the  situation  which  it  does  not  possess. 

"Take  it  then,  and  keep  it  safely,"  murmurs  she, 
smiling  too.  "  See — I  shall  place  it  here  myself,  lest  you 
should  lose  it!"  She  runs  her  slender  fingers  into  one  of 
the  pockets  of  his  waistcoat,  and,  taking  out  a  pencil- 
case,  places  the  violet  there  instead.  "  I  have  tied  it 
with  my  hair,"  she  pays — "  it  and  the  leaf  together. 
Such  a  shabby  little  lock,  so  short!"  She  smiles  pensively. 
"  But  keep  it — keep  it!"  She  sighs  again,  and  gives  a 
last  glance  at  the  sweet  flower  she  has  laid  out  for  its  ap- 
proaching death. 

There  is  in  her  face  such  unutterable  sadness  that  Bou- 
verie loses  his  self-cornmand. 

"Darling,  darling,"  he  says,  "don't  look  like  that!  f 
know  of  what  you  are  thinking.  But  does  it  really  sc 
much  matter?  We  can  go  away,  if  you  desire  it,  beyond 
reach  of  cruel  tongues  and  crueler  hearts,  and  make  a 
foreign  home  for  ourselves,  and  live  and  die  for  each, 
sther." 

"  To  get  away — to  escape — that  in  it,"  she  says,  with  « 


338  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

sort  of  panting  eagerness.  "  Oh,  help  me  to  it!  Gire 
me  the  strength  to  go  where  no  one  would  know — where 
one  might  after  a  while  be  forgotten  by  those  who  once 
loved—" 

She  ceases  abruptly  and  covers  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 
Such  a  small  transparent  hand!  As  the  silver  moonbeams 
fall  upon  it,  it  seems  almost  devoid  of  blood. 

Miss  Maturin's  words  a  while  since — "  This  will  kill 
her" — recur  to  Bouvorie  with  an  awful  clearness.  Will 
it?  Can  this  fragile  form  bear  up  against  the  horror  of 
the  shame  so  rudely  betrayed  to  her?  Or  will  she  give  in 
and  fade  and  droop? 

With  an  anguish  more  acute  than  he  has  ever  yet  known, 
he  catches  the  childish  hand  within  his  own,  and  holds  it 
in  a  grasp  that  is  almost  painful. 

"  Dolores,"  cries  he,  sharply,  "everything shall  be  just 
as  you  willl  Let  us  go  to  Italy — to  any  place  that  has 
seemed  most  pleasant  to  you.  We  shall  be  happy  with 
each  other." 

"  We!"  For  a  while  she  gazes  at  him,  as  if  not  under- 
standing. Then — "  Ah,  yes!"  she  says,  with  an  effort. 
"I  had  forgotten — yes." 

She  seems  still  dreamily  absent  from  the  passing  events 
of  the  moment. 

"Does  the  knowledge  of  my  changeless  love  bring  no 
comfort  to  you?"  asks  the  young  man,  sorrowfully.  "  You 
look  so  sad!  Can  I  do  you  no  good?"  There  are  tears  in 
his  eyes.  "  One  would  imagine  you  had  come  here  to  bid 
me  an  eternal  farewell,"  he  says,  after  a  brief  pause,  with 
an  effort  at  careless  speech  which  does  him  credit. 

As  he  says  this,  a  curious  change  passes  over  her  face. 
She  shrinks  from  him  a  little.  And  then  all  at  once  she 
rouses  herself  and  breaks  into  a  soft,  low  laugh.  It  is 
•uch  an  utter  change  from  her  dejection  of  a  moment 
since  that  Bouverie  stares  at  her. 

"  Farewell,"  she  repeats,  with  a  mirth  that  is  almost 
wild.  "Why  should  you  speak  of  farewell?  Is  the  wish 
father  to  the  thought?  No,  no,  of  course,  I  did  not  mean 
that!  Do  not  believe  it.  "Our  last  thoughts — that  is,  I 
mean  every  thought  ours — must  be  full  of  tenderness." 
She  leans  her  forehead  against  him.  So  standing,  her  face 
is  hidden.  "  I  am  so  tired,"  she  says  presently,  in  a 
tone.  "  And  jet  I  felt  that  I  must  see  you  again. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  239 

You  were  right,  you  see,  when  you  used  to  accuse  me  of 
capriciousness."  She  raises  her  head,  and,  laying  her 
hands  upon  his  arms,  bends  buck  from  him  suddenly  and 
fixes  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a  strange  persistency.  "  I  like 
you  in  that  gray  suit,"  she  suys,  with  a  peculiar  smile.  "Do 
you  know,  whenever  I  think  of  you  in  the  future — and  it 
will  be  often — often — I  shall  always  see  you  dressed  just 
as  you  are  now,  and  with  the  moonlight  falling  on  your 
face — sol  Turn  a  little  more  this  way  now." 

"What  a  fantastic  fairy?  Am  I  always  then  to  wear 
but  one  color  to  gratify  you?  Are  evening  clothes  to  b« 
abjured?  And  I?  How  am  I  to  remember  you?" 

"  Do  not  remember  me,"  she  says  quickly;  and  then, 
her  face  blanching — "Ah,  no,  I  did  not  mean  that?  At 
times  it  will  do  you  no  harm.  Think  of  me,  call  me  to 
mind,"  she  breaks  off  incoherently,  and  lets  her  hands  fall 
to  her  sides. 

"  Not  much  harm,  at  all  events,"  says  Bouverie,  with  a 
careful  laugh.  "But  what  am  I  to  call  to  mind?  Your 
willfulness,  your  tyranny,  the  many  malignant  devices  you 
have  invented  for  my  undoing?"  He  seeks  by  his  own 

fayety  to  rouse  her  from  her  sad  mood.  "But  why  should 
promise  to  think  of  you  at  all?"  he  goes  on  tenderly, 
taking  her  into  his  fond  arms.  "lean  rejoice  in  the  cer- 
tainty that  the  one  thing  closest  to  my  heart  will  also  be 
the  one  thing  before  my  eyes  forever.  We  shall  always  be 
together,  sweetheart,  you  and  I." 

She  makes  him  no  answer;  but  the  small  hand  pressed 
against  his  shoulder  tightens  its  grasp  convulsively.  There 
is  a  long  silence.  Holding  her,  as  he  does,  against  his 
heart,  he  can  feel  how  hers  beats,  wildly,  passionately. 
But  no  word  or  sigh  escapes  her.  What  are  her  thoughts? 
Of  him,  or  of  that  most  grievous  tale  that  has  darkened 
her  young  life?  There  is  a  sharp  frenzy  of  despair  in  the 
clutch  of  the  little  hand.  He  stoops  to  lay  his  lipg 
upon  it. 

At  last  the  violence  of  the  voiceless  emotion  she  has 
been  fighting  with  dies  away;  a  long,  long  sigh  breaks 
from  her.  She  raises  her  head. 

"  Dick!"  she  says,  very  gently.     "  You  love  me,  Dick?" 

"  It  would  be  but  a  poor  thing  to  say  better  than  my 
life,"  replies  he,  gravely.  "  Where  is  there  room  foi 
doubt,  my  darling.?" 


240  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  If,"  she  says,  softly,  with  lowered  lids  and  lowered 
tone — "if  I  were  ever  to  disappoint  you,  how  would  it  b« 
then?" 

"  Disappoint  me?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  with  just  a  faint  touch  of  impatience  in 
her  sad  voice. 

Why  will  he  not  understand?  And  yet — she  pales  and 
•hrinks  back  within  herself  as  some  thought  occurs  to  her; 
•h,  if  he  should  understand! 

"  I  might  do  something  unexpected,"  she  goes  on, 
feverishly;  "something  which  •<  ou  might  disapprove, 
something — " 

"  Dolores,  what  do  you  mean?"  asks  he,  gravely,  puz- 
»led  by  the  vehemence  of  her  manner. 

"  Why,  nothing!"  says  she,  with  a  miserable  little  laugh. 
"  It  is  only  that  it  occurred  to  me  how  often  one  does  a 
thing  that — that  might  not  look  altogether  lovely  in  the 
eyes  of  others.  Now  if  I  were  to  do  a  thing  of  that 
sort,  eh?" 

"Nothing  you  could  do  would  alter  my  love,"  says  the 
young  man,  earnestly. 

"Not  even  if  I  forsook  you?"  asks  she,  with  a  forced 
smile  more  sorrowful  than  any  tears. 

"Not  even  then,"  says  he,  distinctly,  perhaps  a  little 
coldly.  He  is  feeling  puzzled  by  her  manner,  and  un- 
certain. 

"  Oh,  but  it  would,  it  shall!"  cries  she,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  passion.  "At  all  events,  I  hardly  know  what  I 
say,  but  at  all  events,  if  I  ever  should  be  the  cause  of  grief 
to  you,  tell  me  it  would  not  be  lasting  grief,  that  your 
love  for  me,  tried  too  severely,  would  by  degrees  lessen, 
decrease,  fade  away  into  a  kindly  remembrance.  All," 
with  a  quick  sob,  "  it  should  be  kindly!  Tell  me  you 
would,  for  instance,  after  a  little  while,  not  feel  so  pained 
about  me  in  your  thoughts  as  you  did  before." 

"  I  can  not  follow  you,"  says  Bouverie,  slowly.  "  I  only 
know  that  nothing  you  could  ever  do  would  make  me 
love  you  less.  I  am  yours  body  and  soul.  Do  not  mis- 
take me  for  an  instant.  You  speak  of  love's  decay,  its 
decrease,  which  means  its  death.  Oh,  darling,  my  best 
beloved,  what  words  from  you  to  me!"  He  strains  her  to 
his  heart,  and  looks  down  upon  her  with  a  face  made  pals 
by  passionate  reproach.  "It  is  hard  of  you,"  he  says. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  241 

"  It  is  hard,"  she  answers,  dreamily.  She  draws  herself 
/way  from  him,  and  glances  at  the  moon  through  the 
illuminated  window.  "  To-morrow  will  be  fine,"  she  says, 
calmly. 

"  I  think  so,  the  night  is  so  undistuibed."  He  is  won- 
dering at  the  sudden  alterations  of  her  moods,  from  quick 
grief  to  apparent  indifference.  "  If  so,  it  will  be  a  great 
change/'  he  says. 

"  Yes;  to-morrow  will  brkig  a  great  change,"  returns 
she,  absently. 

Bouverie's  gaze  grows  keener  as  he  turns  it  upon  her. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  says,  immediately.  "I  insist  on 
you  going  to  bed  at  once!  You  are  overwrought.  But, 
before  we  part  " — tenderly — "  tell  me  I  shall  not  see  that 
little  aad  brow  with  you  in  the  morning." 

As  he  speaks,  he  smooths  with  loving  fingers  the  fair 
soft  sunny  hair  from  her  forehead. 

"  I  promise,"  she  says,  in  a  dull  voice,  without  raising 
her  eyes,  "you  shall  not  see  this  sad  brow  to-morrow." 

"Good-night  then,  my  own.     lam  cheered  by  your 

Eromise."  says  Bouverie,  drawing  her  to  him,  and  pressing 
is  lips  to  hers. 

She  hardly  returns  the  pressure.  He  is  perhaps  a  little 
hurt  by  her  seeming  coldness;  but  who  shall  fathom  the 
depth  of  the  anguish  she  is  enduring?  Who  shall  describe 
the  strength  of  the  constraint  she  has  laid  upon  herself? 
It  is  all  a  burden  too  heavy  for  her  to  bear! 

A  little  wounded,  he  holds  her  away  from  him  and  tries 
anxiously  to  read  her  face;  but  she  has  so  lowered  her 
head  that  scrutiny  is  impossible  to  him  in  the  dim  sweet 
light  of  the  moo.n.  Then  comes  back  to  him  all  she  has 
suffered  since  first  this  day  dawned,  and  he  forgives  her, 
•censing  himself  the  while  of  a  cruel  want  of  sympathy. 

"  Good-night,"  he  says  tenderly,  and,  with  a  last  em- 
brace, turns  to  leave  her. 

Mute  and  cold,  she  stands  there  where  they  have  parted 
until  he  has  reached  the  very  furthest  end  of  the  corridor. 
Then  all  at  once  the  studied  quiet  of  her  face  breaks  up. 
Is  he  going  forever  thus — for  all  eternity?  Not  knowing, 
a  terrible  cry  parts  her  white  hps;  she  stretches  out  her 
arms  to  him. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  come  back  to  me — come  back!"  she  cries 
desperately.  "  Say  good-night  t«  me,  if  only  once  again !  * 


242  DICK'S    SWEETHEABT. 

And  then,  she  runs  to  him  and  flings  herself  upon  hig 
breast,  and  twines  her  gentle  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
clings  to  him,  as  though  she  would  never  let  him  go — she, 
who  has  ever  been  so  chary  of  her  caresses! 

There  is  something  in  the  very  abandonment  of  her 
grief— something  so  unlike  her  usual  radiant  little  self — 
that  frightens  Bouverie. 

"My  soul,  what  is  it?"  he  whispers  caressingly;  but 
she  scarcely  seems  to  hear  him. 

She  throws  back  her  head  and  looks  at  him;  it  is  a  long 
earnest  look,  such  as  one  might  direct  upon  the  well-be- 
loved dead  ere  yet  the  coffin-lid  has  closed  upon  him. 

"  Good-night,  good-bye/'  she  murmurs  brokenly.  "  Oh, 
darling,  darling,  darling!" 

******* 

Sitting  at  her  window  all  night  long,  sleepless,  motion- 
less, Dolores  watches  for  the  dawn. 

A  weary  vigil.  Slowly,  reluctantly  it  comes  at  last, 
with  a  tremulous  sigh,  as  though  sorrowing  still  for  the 
death  of  gentle  night.  And  yet  it  breaks  upon  the  world 
with  a  glorious  promise.  All  the  passion  of  yesternight 
is  forgotten,  all  the  storm  and  rain  and  hurrying  tempest. 
There  is  now  nothing  left  but  a  suggestion  of  peace  to 
come  and  a  most  blessed  calm. 

The  darkness  severs,  light  grows  upon  the  sky;  another 
day  is  born  only  to  die. 

"  Dawn  skims  the  sea  with  flying  feet  of  gold 
With  sudden  feet  that  graze  the  gradual  sea." 

With  grief  and  misery  within  her  heart,  she  has  sat  and 
mourned  throughout  the  livelong  night;  but,  though  she 
mourned,  she  never  wavered.  Her  promise  has  been 
given  to  his  mother;  it  must  be  kept,  if  only  for  his  sake 
alone.  He  will  be  true;  but  she,  for  his  sake,  must  be 
false,  and  false  alone  to  him  in  whose  keeping  lie  all  her 
truth  and  hope  and  love. 

To  the  opening  streaks  of  crimson  light  upon  the  sky's 
face  her  eyes  cling,  wearied  as  they  are  from  their  long 
unrest.  She  hears  the  first  soft  rush  of  the  scented  moru 
as  it  touches  the  sleeping  earth  and  wakens  the  drowsy 
flowers  in  its  headlong  flight  o'er  meadow,  vale  and  hill. 

When  the  tender  lights  have  grown  into  more  estab- 
lished dawn,  and  this^am  has  jgiyen  place  to  gaudy  day, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAJIT.  843 

Dolores  oestirs  herself.  Rising  half  mechanically  from 
her  low  geat,  as  though  unwillingly  compelled  to  the  doing 
of  some  act  long  ago  determined  upon,  she  moves  abouS 
her  room  and  puts  together  a  few  trifles  in  a  pretty  fanci- 
ful little  basket.  At  the  bottom  lie,  in  tissue-paper  lov- 
ingly folded,  a  few  faded  flowers,  a  miniature,  a  letter,  a 
necklet,  golden  and  fragile — her  first  gift  of  jewelry  from 
Miss  Maturin.  Her  first!  Yet  it  seems  only  as  yesterday 
when  it  was  clasped  around  her  neck  by  fondest  fingers. 
Even  now  she  can  hear  the  kind  voice  wishing  her  again 
"many  happy  returns  of  the  day."  Ah,  why  had  she 
not  died  then?  Why  had  she  lived  to  see  her  latest  birth- 
day? 

All  was  in  preparation  since  last  night.  All  now  is 
soon  arranged.  She  has  not  removed  the  white  gown  she 
wore  yesterday,  but  slips  over  it  a  light-colored  ulster  of 
thinnest  texture,  and  covers  her  sunny  curls  with  a  small 
hat  that,  after  all,  succeeds  only  in  very  partially  conceal- 
ing them.  But  in  the  poor  child's  distracted  mind  there 
is  no  room  for  the  thought  of  concealment. 

Taking  up  her  basket,  she  opens  her  bedroom  door  and 
steps  out  upon  the  corridor  in  the  broad  still  light  of  the 
early  morning.  Miss  Maturing  door  lies  directly  opposite 
to  hers.  Swiftly  she  goes  to  it  and  lays  her  hand  upon 
the  handle.  Then  she  hesitates.  Her  lips  quiver.  Must 
she  go  without  even  one  silent  farewell,  one  last  glance  at 
the  dear  familiar  face  that  has  rever  shown  her  anything 
but  the  lines  of  deepest  love? 

She  stifles  a  passionate  sob,  and,  bending  forward, 
presses  her  lips  lingeringly  to  one  of  the  oaken  panels.  It 
is  a  last,  a  final  adieu!  Yet  no  tears  stand  within  her 
miserable  eyes  as  she  upraises  herself  and  gives  a  rapid 
glance  around. 

Perhaps  there  is  an  involuntary  delay  in  her  gaze  as  it 
comes  to  that  spot  where  he  and  she  had  stood  together 
last  sight,  and  had  "kissed  and  kissed  and  parted,"  to 
meet  again — ah,  never! 

She  turns  away,  and,  going  with  gradual  steps  down 
the  great  staircase,  crosses  the  hall,  and,  as  though  in  a 
dream,  unchains  the  hall-door  and  steps  out  into  the 
thrilling  sweetness  of  the  young  and  growing  morn.  The 
mists  are  rising  from  the  valley,  and  are  clambering  up 
the  sides  of  the  hills  in  inerrv  haste.  It  seems  as  though 


344  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

they,  of  all  the  world,  were  clamoring  for  death,  calling 
aloud  upon  the  sun  to  come  forth  to  them  and  cause  their 
dissolution.  And  as  though  in  speedy  answer  to  their 
prayer,  he  comes,  slowly,  majestically,  with  a  resplendency 
of  glory  that  lights  up  mountain  and  vale.  On  the  in- 
stant the  heavy  mists  arise  and  flout  in  dainty  clouds  into 
the  far  heaven.  And  then — all  at  once — the  sea  lies  bare 
— the  opaline  sea — that,  lying  there  sun-smitten,  trem- 
bles and  sways  beneath  the  magic  touch  of  fiery  Sol. 

The  paths  have  grown  golden;  the  hedge-rows,  made 
thick  by  growing  summer,  are  sending  out  far  and  near 
their  dainty  sweets.  The  birds  are  giving  voice  to  their 
first  joyous  matin. 

"  Sunbeam  by  sunbeam  creeps  from  line  to  line, 
Foam  by  foam  quickens  on  the  bright'ning  brine, 
Sail  by  sail  passes,  flow'r  by  flow'r  gets  free. 

The  day  has  indeed  arisen  in  perfect  beauty. 

As  one  lost  in  a  vague  dream,  Dolores  takes  her  way 
through  brier-grown  lanes  and  scented  wood.  Her  path 
lies  between  dim  hedges,  with  faint  suggestions  of  a  wide 
country  lying  far  beyond,  broken  by  giant  ferns  and  tall 
dog-roses  that  top  the  banks  as  she  walks  along.  The 
bushes  are  full  of  twittering  birds  that,  waking  into  life, 
make  the  air  resound  again.  The  first  stiff  grayness  of 
an  early  dawn  is  dying  away,  and  the  land  is  gaining  in 
color  with  every  minute  that  makes  the  young  day  older. 
Through  the  country,  pale  and  ghost-like,  goes  the  small 
solitary  figure  with  bent  head  and  sad  unseeing  eyes.  The 
wondrous  beauty  that  surrounds  Dolores  is  lost  upon  her 
feverish  sight;  only  when  she  draws  near  the  little  way- 
side station,  and  sees  the  wreaths  of  smoke  that  rise  from 
the  panting  engine,  does  she  at  all  show  any  sign  of  ani- 
mation. 

She  raises  her  head  then,  and,  increasing  her  speed, 
enters  the  gate,  and  is  soon  standing  upon  the  platform. 
A  little  nervous  tremor  passes  over  her  as  she  moves  for- 
ward deliberately  to  take  her  ticket.  The  man  in  the 
office  is  well  Known  to  her;  he  will  probably  recognize 
her,  will  perhaps  ask  a  question  or  two,  and  worst  of  all, 
may  retail  an  account  of  her  sayings  and  doings  to  those 
she  leaves  behind!  Her  trembling  increases  as  she  draws 
nearer  to  the  small  opening  behind  which  her  innocent 
enemy  may  be  standing. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  $45 

But  chance  favors  her.  A  face  quite  strange  meets  her 
gaze,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  she  takes  up  her  ticket 
and  seeks  refuge  in  one  of  the  carriages.  The  porter  she 
has  successfully  avoided;  and  now,  as  the  train  moves  and 
she  finds  she  has  really  set  forth  on  the  journey  the  end 
whereof  is  unknown  to  her,  she  sinks  back  in  her  seat  and 
draws  a  long,  long  breath  of  thankfulness. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  teain  speeds  onward  with  Dolores,  London  is  her 
destination.  In  that  great  city  she  hopes  to  lose  herself 
BO  effectually  that  the  mightiest  effort  on  the  part  of  aunt 
or  lover  may  not  discover  her  whereabouts. 

But  London — that  universal  hiding-place — is  very  far 
removed  from  here — Dead  marsh. 

Leaning  back  against  the  cushions,  she  tries  to  sleep; 
but  no  such  comfort  comes  to  her.  Sleep— ever  shy  when 
most  besought — flies  from  her  now,  leaving  her  with  wide 
and  saddened  eyes. 

One  station  is  reached  and  passed  at  last,  and  now  an- 
other. There  is  no  one  to  share  with  her  the  monotony 
of  the  first-class  carriage  in  which  she  has  seated  herself. 
In  spite  of  the  slenderness  of  her  resources,  all  of  which 
lie  to-day  in  her  pretty  basket,  it  has  not  occurred  to  her 
to  travel  by  any  lower  class.  Custom  has  cheated  her. 
To  want  money — that  is  a  lesson  as  yet  to  be  learned  by 
Dolores. 

How  fast  the  train  seems  to  go— and  yet  what  little 
ground  it  covers!  It  is  now  half  past  seven,  and  still 
what  hours  and  hours  must  elapse  before  London  is 
reached!  A  sun  that  is  almost  tropical  is  pouring  its 
beams  in  through  the  window. 

When  the  fourth  station  is  passed  she  grows  restless. 
This  isolation  is  intolerable;  it  gives  too  much  room  for 
thought!  She  paces  impatiently  up  and  down  the  empty 
carriage.  So  hot!  So  dusty!  Why,  it  was  cool  in  com- 
parison with  this  at —  But  no,  no,  she  must  not  think 
of  Greylands  There  shall  be  no  past  for  her — only  a 
future.  Alas,  how  sweet  her  future  was  to  think  on  only 
two  days  ago! 

She  clasps  her  hands  tightly  together.     Yes,  this  mo- 


246  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

notony  is  intolerable— she  will  put  an  end  to  it.  And 
then  all  at  once  she  tells  herself  she  can  bear  the  train  no 
longer.  What  does  it  matter  that  she  has  taken  a  ticket 
to  London?  What  indeed  does  it  matter  about  anything? 
She  will  get  out  at  the  next  station.  To  walk,  to  move, 
no  matter  where,  will  be  better  than  this;  and  she  can  go 
gome  where — anywhere! 

She  is  growing  somewhat  confused.  Her  mental  misery, 
combined  with  the  last  long  terrible  night  of  cruel  sleep- 
lessness, is  now  telling  upon  her  delicate  organization. 
Was  it  indeed  only  last  night  she  lay  awake  waiting  for 
dawn?  Was  it  only  yesterday  that  Lady  Bouverie  spoke 
to  her;  or  was  it  a  year  ago  since  first  she  heard  that  she 
was —  was — 

She  shrinks  back  into  her  seat,  and  her  lips  grow  deadly 
white.  Oh,  no,  not  that!  She  will  not  think  of  that! 
It  is  all  over  now  and  done.  Nothing  can  undo  it.  Why 
torture  one's-self  with  memories  that  serve  only  to  crush 
and  kill  the  already  broken  spirit? 

She  rouses  herself  and  looks  out  of  the  open  window 
upon  the  sameness  of  the  green  fields  as  they  fly  past  her 
aching  eyes,  clad  in  their  summer  verdure.  The  growing 
desire  to  leave  this  terrible  inactivity  presses  sorely  upon 
her;  the  compulsory  quietude  of  it  becomes  an  agony  at 
last.  Oh  to  leave  it!  When  will  the  next  station  be 
reached? 

She  feels  no  anxiety  about  quitting  the  train,  and  thus 
finding  herself  on  soil  strange  to  her.  She  will  meet  some 
woman — so  run  her  unspoiled  thoughts — some  kind 
woman  who  will  befriend  her  and  tell  her  where  to  go, 
and  who  may  perchance  offer  her  employment.  Up  to 
this  she  has  found  all  the  world  kind;  and  why  should  it 
Hot  be  the  same  now?  No  one  in  all  her  short  sweet  life 
has  given  her  so  much  as  a  chilling  glance  or  a  cruel 
word,  except — Lady  Bouverie.  She  shivers,  as  though 
stricken  with  mortal  cold,  as  she  remembers  her,  and  lays 
her  head  back  wearily  against  the  cushions. 

With  a  slackening  of  speed  the  train  steams  into  the 
station — a  little  insignificant  "pick-me-up  "  of  a  place, 
hardly  worthy  of  notice,  but  pretty  nevertheless  because 
of  the  gay  creepers  that  cover  the  gray  walls  of  it,  and  the 
red  pots  containing  redder  geraniums  which  stand  upon 
the  sills  of  the  waiting-room. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  247 

Dolorea,  without  any  hesitation,  steps  on  to  the  plat- 
form. It  is  a  spot  where  very  few  alight,  except  on  cer- 
tain occasions;  and  presently  the  train  rushes  away  again, 
leaving  her  behind. 

Bewildered,  she  looks  round  her.  Not  a  living  soul 
save  herself  is  on  the  platform.  For  the  first  time  she 
feels  the  hideousness  of  being  alone.  Fear  seizes  upon 
her.  How  terrible  it  is  to  be  in  this  strange  place,  not 
knowing  whither  to  turn. 

A  man,  advancing  toward  her,  accosts  her  very  civilly; 
but,  still  possessed  by  this  new  fear,  she  steps  back,  makes 
him  some  little  cold,  indistinct  rejoinder,  and  moves  away 
from  him;  then,  appalled  by  the  uncertainty  that  lies 
before  her,  and  knowing  how  hopeless  a  thing  it  will  be 
to  set  out  upon  her  adventure  without  advice  of  some 
kind,  she  tarns  back  to  him,  and  asks  timidly  where  the 
nearest  town  may  lie. 

"  The  village  is  just  here,"  he  tells  her,  with  a  bend  of 
his  thumb  in  the  meant  direction;  but,  seeing  that  such 
news  is  not  desired  by  her,  he  widens  his  information. 
"If  you  mean  Dorminster,"  he  says,  leisurely,  alluding 
to  the  largest  town  nearest  to  him,  "  it  is  about  five  miles 
from  here;  and  there's  the  road  to  it  yonder." 

He  points,  as  he  speaks,  to  a  dusty  line  that  spreads 
eastward  and  travels  ever  onward,  until  far  away  it  looks 
like  a  pale  ribbon  dividing  the  green  fields  on  either 
hand. 

Thanking  him  softly,  Dolores  leaves  him,  and  is  soon 
lost  to  sight  behind  a  curve  on  the  dry  road. 

A  long  road!  Dolores,  spent  and  weary  by  her  night's 
vigil,  toils  over  it  bravely,  whilst  feeling,  without 
acknowledging  it,  the  fatigue  that  already  is  growing  too 
much  for  her.  There  had  been,  beside  the  sleeplessness, 
that  terrible  walk  in  the  morning  to  catch  the  train, 
accompanied  by  scathing  recollections  crueler  than  death. 

She  has  passed  upon  the  road  a  cottage  or  two,  but  has 
felt  no  inclination,  though  by  now  very  footsore  and  sad 
at  heart,  to  entreat  the  hospitality  of  their  inmates. 
Were  ever  five  miles  before  so  heavy  a  task  to  be  accom- 
plished? Her  feet  are  aching;  through  her  thin  shoes 
the  sharp  stones  cut;  each  step  grows  painful.  It  is  now 
past  noon,  and  she  has  had  no  breakfast,  but  this  last 
thought  does  not  distress  her;  she  feels  no  desire  for  food 


248  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

of  any  kind,  only  a  longing  to  go  further,  ever  further, 
and  lose  herself  in  the  bustling  unconcern  of  some  large 
town. 

But  now  her  strength  gives  way  a  little,  and,  seeing  a 
small,  ivy-covered  cottage  on  her  right  hand,  a  few  yards 
in  advance  of  her,  she  timidly  makes  up  her  mind  to  dravr 
nigh  to  it  and  ask  for  permission  to  rest  awhile. 

Coming  to  the  door  of  this  small  oasis  in  her  wilder- 
ness, and  finding  it  open,  she  crosses  the  threshold,  and 
there  stands  looking  irresolutely  to  her  left. 

She  can  see  a  kitchen,  a  blazing  fire,  and  near  it  some 
one — who  is  plainly  the  good  wife  of  the  house — moving 
to  and  fro. 

"  May  I  come  in?"  asks  Dolores  at  last,  in  her  low  soft 
voice. 

The  woman  turns. 

"Just  fci  a  little  moment,"  says  Dolores  hurriedly, 
tears  in  her  voice.  "  I  am  so  tired!" 

"  Why,  surely,  yes,  miss!"  answers  the  woman,  regard- 
ing her  with  intense  surprise  and  a  good  deal  of  honest 
kindness.  "Come  in,  dear."  She  gazes  with  strong 
curiosity,  oddly  mingled  with  admiration,  at  the  dainty 
little  stranger  with  the  pale  sad  face.  "  Sit  you  down," 
she  says  heartily,  "and  find  rest  for  yourself  awhile." 

"  Find  rest!"  repeats  Dolores  dreamily.  She  looks  at 
the  woman  absently,  as  though  her  thoughts  had  flown 
away  from  her,  leaving  only  her  body  behind.  She  sighs 
heavily. 

"Ay,  dear,  rest!"  says  the  woman  gently.  "I  think 
you  had  better  come  into  the  parlor;  it  is  cooler  there." 

She  takes  the  girl's  languid  hand  within  her  own  and 
leads  her  into  a  carpeted  apartment  made  gay  with  crim- 
son moreen  curtains  and  decorated  profusely  with  the 
orthodox  bead-work  and  many- tinted  shells.  This  room 
is  evidently  the  pride  of  the  good  woman's  existence,  and 
it  is  with  an  ill-concealed  pleasure  she  ushars  her  unex- 
pected guest  into  it. 

Dolores,  sinking  into  a  chair,  draws  a  long  breath  of 
extreme  exhaustion. 

"Eh,  but  you  are  done  up!"  says  her  hostess 
passionately.     "Come  a  long  way,  perhaps?" 
"  A  long,  long  way!"  murmurs  Dolores, 
she  a  Machiavelli  in  petticoats,  she 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  24t 

laid  nothing  more  calculated  to  mislead  the  mind  of  her 
interrogator.  To  that  stalwart  dame  the  five  miles  more 
or  less  the  girl  has  traveled  would  seem  as  a  mere  nothing. 
"  A  long,  long  way  " — and  uttered  so  pathetically — must 
mean  a  day's  journey  at  the  very  least.  And  a  day's 
journey  it  has  seemed  indeed  to  poor  Dolores. 

Her  face  is  haggard;  already  the  ravages  of  excitement 
and  grievous  recollection  have  made  their  marks  upon  it. 
Her  eyes,  grown  delicately  large  and  dark,  look  out  with 
a  singular  incongruity  from  the  pallor  of  their  surround- 
ings. Beneath  them  lie  like  shadows  fatigue-lines  tinted 
with  palest  purple.  Something  in  her  whole  mournful 
appearance  appeals  powerfully  to  the  woman's  heart. 

She  notes  the  traces  of  gentle  breeding  in  the  girl's  air, 
and  marks,  when  the  light  ulster  opens  at  the  end,  where 
the  pretty  costly  white  dress  peeps  out.  She  is  not  insen- 
sible either  to  the  soft  frills  of  Mechlin  lace  that  cling  to 
the  rounded  throat  and  fall  over  the  slight  wrists;  the 
little  ten-buttoned  gloves  are  in  themselves  a  revelation. 

"  If  you  have  run  away  from  home,  dear,"  she  says, 
bluntly,  but  with  evident  kindly  intent,  glancing  reflect- 
ively at  the  blanched  cheeks  and  darkened  lids  before  her, 
"  why  not  go  back?  If  they  have  been  angry  with  you — " 

"  No  one  has  been  angry,"  interrupts  Dolores,  hur- 
riedly. 

"Eh,  now!"  says  the  woman,  regarding  her  keenly. 
"  And  yet  something  tells  me  you  are  not  altogether  as 
happy  as  you  might  be." 

"Ah,  that  is  true,  indeed!"  cries  Dolores,  with  a  sud- 
den passionate  agreement,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "  But  I  do  entreat  you,"  she  murmurs,  brokenly, 
"  to  ask  me  no  questions." 

"  I  will  not,"  says  the  woman,  hastily.  "  Keep  your 
secret,  my  dear,  whatever  it  be.  There's  no  great  harm 
in  it,  I  warrant!  And  now  what  shall  I  give  you?  A  cup 
o'  milk  and  some  bread  and  butter?  'Tis  handy  to  me; 
and  I  can  see  you  are  main  tired  and  badly  in  want  of 
food." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  declares  Dolores,  very  truthfully. 

"  Then  you  onght  to  be.  I'm  thinking  'tis  a  long  hour 
since  last  you  broke  bread.  What  would  you  say  to  a 
beaten  egg  now  with  a  drop  o'  brandy  in  it?"  asks  this 
good  Samaritan,  with  %uite  an  insinuating  air.  "  My 


250  DICK'S    SWEETHEAKT. 

John  he  do  say  as  how  a  beaten  egg  and  brandy  is  the 
finest  cure  known  for  all  the  woes  o'  the  world.  Have  it 
— do  'e  now,  dear!" 

"  No,  no;  I  will  not  trouble  you,"  says  Dolores,  gently. 
"  See  how  good  you  have  been  to  me  already!" 

"Tut,  my  dear!  Let  me  now  do  something  really  for 
you,"  entreats  her  hostess  earnestly. 

"  If  you  will  then,"  says  Dolores  timidly,  blushing 
warmly — "if  you  will  be  so  very  kind,  let  me — bathe  my 
feet;  they  ache  so!"  Her  voice  quivers  slightly.  "  The 
road  was  very  hard,"  she  goes  on  tremulously,  raising 
pathetic  eyes  to  the  face  of  her  new  friend,  "  and  my 
shoes,  I  think,  are  very  thin — though  I  never  found  that 
out  until  to-day.  A  little  water  is  all  I  want.  I  shall 
give  you  no  further  trouble,  I" — eagerly — "can  bathe 
them  myself." 

The  very  anxiety  with  which  she  says  this  would  prove 
to  the  dullest  observer  that  such  a  task  will  be  new  to  her. 
Her  hostess  laughs  the  idea  to  scorn. 

"Indeed — as  if  I  should  let  you,  miss!"  she  says. 
"You  just  lie  back  in  that  easy-chair  and  wait  until  I 
come  to  you  again." 

She  leaves  the  room  on  the  instant,  and  presently  re- 
turns, bearing  in  both  her  hands  a  huge  bowl  of  tepid 
water.  Depositing  tkis  upon  the  floor,  she  departs  again, 
only  to  reappear  this  time  with  a  small  tray  on  which  lie 
a  plate  of  bread  and  butter  and  a  tumbler  half  filled  with 
some  opaque  compound. 

"Now,  just  to  please  me,  you'll  drink  this,"  she  says 
coaxingly. 

Dolores'  eyes  fill  with  tears.  She  leans  toward  her 
hostess. 

"  Have  you  a  daughter?"  she  asks,  irrelevantly  as  it 
seems;  but  her  train  of  thought  is  followed  by  the  good 
woman  of  the  house. 

"  One,  miss;  but  she's  away  from  me  most  of  her  time. 
She's  a  very  likely  girl  is  my  Susan,  and  as  good  as  her 
looks.  She's  clever  enough  too,  and  engaged  to  as  decent 
a  young  fellow  as  ever  stepped  in  shoe-leather." 

"  She  has  a  lover?"  asks  Dolores  involuntarily,  with  a 
Sadden  false  brightness. 

Jn  a  moment  the  deceitful  elow  fades;  the  swift  pain- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  251 

fnl  flash  that  has  dyed  her  cheeks,  now  ebbing,  leares  her 
only  one  degree  ghastlier  than  she  was  before.  Alas  for 
her  own  lover!  Where  is  lie  now — of  what  thinking? 
She  checks  by  a  supreme  effort  the  sob  that  rises  in  her 
throat,  and  tries  to  listen  to  the  answer  to  the  question. 

"  A  lover  indeed!"  says  the  mother,  with  a  pardonable 
pride — she  is  kneeling  before  Dolores,  and,  being  in  the 
act  of  untying  her  silken  shoe-string,  is  blind  to  the  agony 
in  the  young  face  above  her.  "  Such  a  deal  as  he  thinks 
o'  my  Susan!"  she  says.  "  But  the  fact  is,  miss,  they're 
too  poor  to  marry  until  he  has  a  certain  sum  in  hand. 
He  can  rent  a  farm  well  enough,  but  he  must  have  money 
to  stock  it,  you  see.  So  our  Susan  she  said  as  how  she'd  go 
into  service  a  bit  and  save  her  wages  and  that.  And  he 
said  he'd  work  himself  to  skin  and  bone  until  the  sum 
was  made  up.  It  seems  as  how  he's  going  to  serve  for 
his  Rachel,  too,  miss,  don't  it?" 

"Is  it  much — the  money,  I  mean?"  asks  Dolores.  She 
has  recovered  herself  during  the  good  woman's  speech 
and  now  feels  sufficiently  interested  in  this  honest  love 
affair  to  wish  to  hear  somewhat  more  of  it.  To  her  it 
seems  strangely  horrible  that  mere  money  should  be  the 
means  of  parting  two  true  lovers.  Money!  What  a  bag- 
atelle it  sounds!  What  an  easily  surmountable  difficulty 
it  seems  when  one  thinks  on  the  other  things — such  cruel 
things — that  no  power  on  earth  can  overcome! 

"Two  hundred  pounds,"  says  her  hostess,  sadly. 
"Eh,  but  it  do  sound  so  big  a  loomp!  I  doubt  but  my 
Snsan  will  be  many  a  year  older  before  she  is  Mrs.  Joe — 
Easier  now,  dear — eh?" 

She  has  drawn  off  the  thin  shoes  and  the  silk  stockings 
some  time  since,  and  is  now  busied  in  bathing  with  all  a 
mother's  tenderness  the  little  white  bruised  feet. 

" The  water  feels  like  satin,"  says  Dolores  gratefully. 
"  Oh,  the  relief  of  it!  What  a  kind,  kind  woman  you 
are!  I  wish  your  Susan  had  that  two  hundred  pounds. 
Perhaps" — slowly — "she  may  some  day." 

"Oh,  some  day,  yes!"  returns  the  woman,  with  gentle 
cheerfulness.  "In  the  meantime  she  must  only  work 
and  hope.  Hope  is  a  great  strengthener.  Well,  and 
have  you  taken  that  drink  of  John's?  Ah,  that's  goo(J 
now!  And,  if  you  must,  as  you  say,  set  out  again,  why, 
it  will  do  you  a  world  o'  good!  And  where  be  you  bound 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

for,  miss,  if" — smiling — "I  be  not  asking  a  cross-ques- 
tion?" 

"  For  Dorminster,"  says  Dolores.  "I  must,  I  think, 
be  near  it  now,  because,  when  I  asked  the  man  at  the  sta- 
tion, lie  said  it  was  only  five  miles  away,  and  I  have  been 
walking  for  many  hours." 

"  Dorminster!  Dear  heart  alive,  what  has  brought  you 
this  way?  "  exclaims  the  woman,  uplifting  her  arms  in 
consternation.  "Why,  you  be  ten  miles  from  it  nowl 
You  must  have  come  the  wrong  way!" 

"Ten  miles!"  repeats  Dolores  faintly.  "How  could 
I  have  come  the  wrong  way?  He  pointed  it  out  to  me." 

Then  all  at  once  she  remembers  how  she  came  to  a  cross 
where  four  roads  joined,  and  was  not  sure  of  her  turning. 
Doubtless,  in  her  ignorance,  she  took  the  wrong  one. 

Oh,  it  is  too  cruel!  But  she  will  not  give  in.  She  is 
vet  too  near  her  home.  She  must  go  on,  on,  until  all 
trace  of  her  is  lost. 

"  Would  no  other  town  do  you  for  the  night?  "  asks  the 
woman,  with  sagacious  concern;  she  has  secretly  clung  to 
her  first  wise  belief  in  the  fact  of  the  girl's  having  run 
away  from  home. 

"Is  there  one  nearer  than  Dorminster?"  asks  Dolores 
anxiously. 

"  There  is  Thurston;  it  is  but  six  miles  from  this  if  you 
take  the  northern  road." 

"  I  had  better  go  there,"  says  Dolores,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  thought  of  the  six  miles  lying  before  her,  to  follow 
OP-  the  five  miles  lying  behind,  quite  overcomes  her.  She, 
who  has  never  been  accustomed  to  hardship  of  any  kind, 
to  be  now  compelled  to  trudge  along  the  lonely  road — 
alone!  She  smothers  her  fear  however,  and,  with  a 
bravery  strange  as  it  is  pathetic,  looks  up  at  her  hostess 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"Come  with  me  to  the  door,"  she  says,  "and  point  out 
to  me  the  direction  in  which  Thurston  lies." 

The  woman,  accompanying  her  to  the  threshold,  gives 
her  full  directions  as  to  her  route. 

"  But  ask  as  you  go  along,"  she  says  gravely,  "  that  no 
mistake  be  made  a  second  time.  And,  if  you  grow  too 
tired,  my  dear,  why,  come  back  to  me,  and  you  shall  have 
a  bed  here,  though  no  doubt  a  rough  onel"" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  25S 

Dolores,  turning  to  her  suddenly,  throws  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  kisses  her  warmly. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  whispers  softly;  "I  shall  never  forget 
you — never!  And  some  day  I  think — I  know — we  shall 
meet  again!" 

She  loosens  her  embrace  and  goes  from  her  quickly. 
Without  so  much  as  one  backward  glance,  she  disappears 
up  the  hot  and  dusty  road. 

"Poor  little  heart!"  says  the  woman,  watching  her  as 
far  as  the  bend  in  the  road  which  presently  must  hide  her 
altogether — there  is  an  honest  anxiety  in  her  tone. 

Just  at  the  very  last  Dolores  turns  and  waves  her  hand, 

"  God  grant  she  come  to  naught  but  good!"  says  the 
woman,  fervently,  returning  that  last  adieu  with  a  strong 
pang  of  regretful  uneasiness  at  her  heart.  "But  wh«re 
be  her  friends — where?" 

Another  moment,  and  Dolores  is  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IT  is  seven  hours  later  and  Dolores  is  still  walking  along 
the  lonely  highway.  But  not  now  is  her  step  light  and 
impatient  as  it  was  in  the  early  morn.  It  is  slow  and 
languid,  and  as  the  step  of  one  who  has  given  house-room 
to  despair. 

Where  is  she  now — how  far  advanced  toward  her  jour- 
ney's end?  Alas,  she  knows  not  at  this  moment  where 
her  journey's  end  may  be!  She  has  lost  her  way,  and  is 
walking  onward  mechanically,  stupefied  in  mind  and 
worn  out  in  soul  i:r,d  body. 

Not  that  she  has  been  actually  moving  all  this  time. 
Some  hours  ago,  conquered  by  a  desire  for  rest,  she 
turned  aside  into  an  adjoining  field,  and,  overpowered  by 
weakness,  crept  under  the  shelter  of  a  friendly  haycock 
and  sunk  into  a  slumber  unsatisfying,  fretful,  and  broken 
by  cruel  dreamings. 

Unrefreshed,  she  arose  from  this  but  half-unconscious 
sleep  to  find  the  day  far  spent  and  noontide  merging  into 
night.  Twilight  darkened  the  air,  and  a  faint  dull  mist 
springing  from  a  watery  marsh  far  down  below  in  the  hol- 
low was  rendering  even  more  desolate  the  unutterable 
melancholy  of  the  dying  light, .  It  burdened  the  very 


254  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

passing  breeze,  which  yet  was  heavj  with  an  intolerable 
heat.  But  on — on!  Her  early  watchword  clung  to  her 
then,  echoing  in  her  ears  and  urging  her  to  further  dar- 
ing. Springing  to  her  feet,  she  stepped  out  again  upon 
the  thirsty  road,  but  indifferently  touched  by  the  soft 
mist,  and  looked  eagerly  around  her. 

Here,  too,  the  roads  joined.  A  sense  of  confusion  filled 
her  tired  brain.  No  one  was  in  sight,  no  help  near. 
Miserable,  purposeless,  she  took  the  nearest  way,  almost 
unconsciously,  and  toiled  with  heavy  footsteps  and  forlorn 
hope  along  the  isolated  road. 

And  now  how  her  head  aches,  how  weary  are  her  limbs! 
She  will  seek  the  very  next  cottage,  and,  in  spite  of  her  hor- 
ror of  being  questioned — a  horror  that  has  kept  her  aloof 
from  every  house  since  she  quitted  that,  first  kind  soul 
who  had  so  well  accepted  her — will  crave  from  the  owners 
of  it  a  night's  shelter. 

With  stumbling  steps  and  quickened  breath  and  poor, 
sad  eyes,  half  blinded  by  dust  and  drifting  mist,  she  fights 
her  way  onward.  She  is  almost  at  the  end  of  every  hope, 
when  at  last  a  small,  ugly  dwelling  upon  the  wayside 
looms  in  sight.  She  hastens  toward  it  as  fast  as  her  tired 
feet  can  carry  her.  Whilst  yet  some  little  way  from  it, 
angry  voices  rising  on  the  clouded  air  come  to  her.  Reach- 
ing the  rustic  gate  that  guards  it  from  the  road,  she 
glances  nervously  through  it,  and  sees,  a  few  yards  from 
where  she  stands,  a  large,  angry-looking  woman. 

She  is  larger  than  anything  in  female  shape  as  yet 
imagined  by  Dolores.  She  is  standing  very  upright,  with 
her  head  thrown  well  back,  and  is  brandishing  in  her 
right  hand  a  huge  broom.  The  other  hand  is  fixed,  as  if 
immovably,  upon  her  hip.  She  is  scolding  with  might 
^nd  main,  and  without  the  faintest  intermission,  a  stolid- 
looking  girl,  who  gives  one  the  impression  of  being  accus- 
tomed to  this  sort  of  thing  ever  since  she  saw  the  light, 
and  who  is  leisurely  shaking  the  dust  from  a  small  strip 
of  carpet  as  she  listens,  or  is  supposed  to  be  listening. 

There  is  an  indifference  about  this  girl's  face  and  entire 
bearing  that  might  have  made  her  a  study  to  Dolores  at 
another  time.  Now  she  is  to6  filled  with  fear  and  nervous 
anxiety  to  note  aught  but  the  angry  woman  and  the  sug' 
gestive  broomstick.  Some  little  motion  on  her  part  makes 
the  woman  turn  toward  her. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  256 

"Will  you — "  begins  Dolores,  desperately;  then  the  re- 
quest, for  a  night's  rest  dies  upon  her  lips.  How  could 
she  find  rest  here?  "  M;iy  I,"  she  murmurs,  faintly, 
"  have  a  glass  of  water?  It  is  so  hot — I  am  so — " 

"No!  Get  you  gone!"  shrieks  the  woman  furiously, 
with  an  oath.  "  I  have  had  enough  to  do  with  idle  hus* 
sies  lately  to  spare  time  for  tramps!" 

Dolores,  though  hardly  comprehending  the  words, 
shrinks  backward;  a  cold  chill  strikes  to  her  heart.  She 
sways  a  little,  as  though  some  unexpected  blow  had  been 
dealt  her,  and  then,  with  a  fictitious  strength  born  of 
acute  fear,  she  flies  the  spot.  On,  on! 

A  deadly  languor  is  creeping  over  her;  with  a  wild 
energy  she  battles  with  it,  but  all  in  vain.  Her  wearied 
feet  almost  refuse  to  move,  her  hands,  hanging  limply  by 
her  side,  have  lost  all  feeling.  This  strange  sensation 
threatens  every  moment  to  overpower  her,  to  drag  her  to 
the  dust.  And  still  she  creeps  onward  through  the  fast 
deepening  twilight,  faintly,  uncertainly,  as  one  might  in 
a  strange  dream. 

Oh,  if  Dick  could  only  see  his  darling  now,  with  hei 
drooping  head  and  pale  dejected  face  and  lips  full  of 
earth's  keenest  misery!  Her  eyes  are  dull  and  lowered; 
for  some  time  she  has  forgotten  to  raise  them  from  the 
ground;  her  pretty  white  gown  is  soiled  and  draggled.  In 
one  dainty  shoe  a  large  rent  is  visible;  already  the  stones 
hurt  the  fender  foot  it  holds.  From  her  parted  lips  comes 
a  sighing  sound,  weak  and  low,  that  might  be  born  of  one 
who  is  enduring  mortal  pain — the  pain  of  a  broken  heart. 
All  this  long  day  she  has  been  haunted  by  miserable 
thought.  It  is  the  only  thing  she  has  had  to  accompany 
her  upon  her  weary  way. 

Night  is  descending  fast;  the  shadows  have  caught  her. 
And  now  at  last,  when  hope  is  at  an  end,  her  vision  fails 
her  too.  Every  nerve  quivers,  and  her  sight  begins  to 
play  her  fantastic  tricks.  A  common  bush  rising  between 
her  and  the  lowering  sky  sends  a  horrible  fear  into  her 
inmost  soul.  She  shudders  and  comes  to  a  standstill  und 
cowers  before  it,  so  large  it  seems  to  rise  against  the  dull 
horizon,  so  fantastically  shaped  is  it  to  her  distorted  fancy. 

She  drops  back  step  by  step  into  the  darker  seclusion, 
of  the  high  grassy  bank  that  guards  her  side  of  the  road, 
and  stands  there  trembling.  Then  all  at  once,  as  it  were, 


256  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

her  vision  clears,  and  this  terrible  apparition  resolves  itseir 
into  a  mild  elderbush,  out  of  which  peep  two  pule  dog- 
roses.  Did  she  mistake  them  for  the  eyes  of  some  resent- 
ful monster? 

She  rouses  herself  and  again  presses  forward.  Her  tirec. 
feet  almost  refuse  to  obey  her.  Again  that  curious  dim- 
ness oppresses  her,  blotting  out  the  landscape  and  casting 
an  opaque  veil  over  the  nearest  objects. 

The  wonderful  courage  that  has  sustained  her  all  througk 
does  not  desert  her  now;  but  it  has  sunk  into  a  dormant 
state,  heavy  of  rousing. 

"  Oh  that  I  might  find  some  resting-place!"  she  mur- 
murs to  herself  faintly.  "  Only  a  little  place  to— 

Something  has  met  her  with  a  sudden  violence.  She 
staggers  back  weakly,  and  puts  out  her  hands  with  a  sen- 
sitive haste,  as  though  to  ward  off  the  approach  of  this 
new  enemy.  Her  hands  come  in  contact  with  a  stone 
wall. 

At  this  discovery  she  breaks  into  an  hysterical  laugh, 
and  asks  herself  half  humorously  why  the  wall  should 
have  chosen  to  arise  from  its  place  and  advance  upon  her 
of  all  people — a  foe  so  unworthy  of  his  strength!  This 
strained  mirth  of  hers  is  sadder  than  all  tears.  Her  smile 
is  wan  and  melancholy.  At  this  moment  it  occurs  to  her 
with  a  cruel  distinctness  that  she  would  be  glad  if  she 
might  only  cry.  But  such  a  luxury  as  tears  is  denied 
her. 

Once  more  she  continues  her  way,  this  time  with  her 
hand  against  the  aggressive  wall,  as  though  seeking  its 
support.  How  weak  she  has  grown — how  dependent! 
Again  that  terrible  growing  unconsciousness  attacks  her, 
and  again  she  overcomes  it;  but  each  victory  leaves  her 
weaker  than  before. 

Is  she  to  meet  and  battle  with  death — here  on  the  broad 
highway,  in  the  very  heart  of  rnild  and  happy  summer? 
It  would  be  more  picturesque,  she  tells  herself,  with  a  last 
return  of  the  old  girlish  gayety  that  was  hers — when? 
How  many  years  ago? 

She  sighs  heavily.  The  wall  coming  suddenly  to  an  end, 
*he  finds  herself  before  a  small  graveled  entrance,  with  a 
small  iron  gate  before  it,  and  a  small  avenue  beyond.  At 
the  end  of  this  avenue,  a  pretty  house,  ivy-clad,  may  be 
seen,  small,  too,  but  exquisitely  kept,  with  trailing  roses 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  257 

covering  it,  and  the  green  shoots  of  an  early  Virginian 
creeper  just  showing  themselves,  which  later  on  will  blos- 
som into  vivid  hues  of  orange  and  crimson;  and  at  the 
sides  a  purple  jacmana  just  bursting  into  flower. 

An  ideal  cottage,  kindly,  hospitable!  Dolores,  faint 
in  body  and  sick  at  heart  and  bereft  of  all  hope,  clings 
tremblingly  to  the  iron  railings  of  the  gate,  and  longs  pas- 
sionately for  the  rest  and  calm  that  lie  beyond  it;  but  the 
memory  of  her  last  cruel  repulse  still  lives  with  her,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  failing  consciousness  that  bids  her  stay,  she 
shudders  and  turns  aside.  But  Nature,  the  all-powerful, 
stronger  than  pride,  greater  than  sensibility,  the  mother  of 
all,  now  asserts  herself.  She  cries  aloud  for  succor  for  this 
sad  child  of  hers.  Doloree,  obeying  her  mandate,  comes 
back,  and,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  lifts  up  the  latch  of  the 
gate,  und  goes  mechanically  down  the  tiny  avenue.  As  if 
in  a  dream  she  goes,  and  presently  finds  herself  standing 
beneath  the  rose-crowned  portico  of  the  house. 

The  door  is  open  to  admit  the  warm  summer  breeze. 
Across  the  hall  a  woman  is  passing  leisurely — a  short  stout 
woman  of  the  housekeeper  type,  with  a  back  generously 
broad. 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  Dolores;  the  light  steps  of  the 
forlorn  little  wayfarer  have  not  reached  her  ears.  Dolores, 
laying  one  hand  upon  the  lintel  of  the  door,  raises  the  other 
and  holds  it  out  imploringly  to  the  departing  figure  of  the 
woman.  Alas,  her  back  is  turned  and  she  can  not  see! 
Swiftly,  swiftly  she  goes  from  her!  Another  moment,  and 
she  will  have  turned  the  corner,  and  Dolores'  last  chance 
will  be  gone! 

Tightly  clinching  her  hands,  the  poor  child  tries  des- 
perately to  give  utterance  to  the  words  burning  within  her, 
only  to  find  that  she  can  not.  Something  terrible  has  hap- 
pened to  her!  She  can  not  speak!  Her  voice  is  dumb — 
dead!  At  the  very  last  moment  it  has  failed  her!  A  pro- 
longed nightmare  of  horror  and  misery  and  fatigue  has 
rendered  her  mute. 

She  struggles  with  her  failing  powers;  an  agonized  ex- 
pression convulses  her  face.  Her  last  hope  is  escaping  her, 
yet  she  can  not  call  aloud  to  it  to  stay!  She  shivers  from 
head  to  foot.  Another  instant,  and  this  unknown  woman 
— who  yet  is  human,  and  may  perhaps  be  her  savior — will 
have  turned  the  corner  and  disappeared.  She  can  not  gee 


258  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

the  trembling  hand  outstretched  or  note  the  pitifulness  of 
the  face.  Deliberately  ignorant  of  the  pain  that  lies  be- 
hind her,  the  housekeeper  continues  her  way,  humming  a 
simple  ditty  as  she  goes. 

Dolores,  desperate,  makes  one  last  violent  effort  to 
overcome  herself.  A  cry  breaks  from  her,  low  and  bitter 
exceedingly;  the  woman,  startled,  turns. 

"  One  moment!"  cries  Dolores  hoarsely,  holding  out 
both  her  hands  to  her  now.  "  One!" 

That  strange  clond  is  again  enveloping  her;  she  seems 
•ver  falling,  falling;  and  her  voice — how  strange  it 
sounds!  Is  it  her  own  voice? 

"  Help  me!"  she  whispers  faintly. 

"  Bless  me!"  exclaims  the  woman  in  a  frightened  tone. 

She  flings  aside  the  feather  duster  she  has  been  carry- 
ing, and  rushes  toward  the  girl  with  arms  nervously  ex- 
tended. Another  instant,  and  Dolores  has  sunk  into 

them,  exhausted,  insensible. 

******* 

It  is  a  week  later;  six  whole  days  have  grown  and 
shrunk  and  died  before  men's  gaze  since  first  the  terrible 
sense  of  loss  unspeakable,  the  knowledge  of  desolation, 
fell  with  a  crushing  violence  upon  Miss  Maturin  and  Bou- 
verie.  She  has  gone  from  them — the  one  they  loved — gone 
forever!  Already  their  belief  in  her  possible  recovery 
grows  languid;  hope  is  almost  at  an  end. 

First  there  had  been  an  incredulous  amazement  when 
her  room  was  found  vacant,  and  the  hours  came  and  went 
without  bringing  a  sign  from  her  who  filled  all  their 
thoughts  to  overflowing.  The  little  lace-edged  bed  had 
not  been  slept  in — that  they  knew  at  once;  the  satin 
coverlet  of  palest  blue  was  stretched  out  calmly,  un- 
wrinkled  by  lightest  touch;  her  hat  and  cloak  were  miss- 
ing. But  all  this  was  as  nothing.  She  had  probably 
passed  a  sleepless  night,  torn  by  distressful  thought,  and 
had  gone  out  of  the  house  in  the  early  morning  to  clear 
her  sad  brain  and  refresh  her  tired  spirit  with  the  sweet 
satisfying  dew.  She  would  return  presently  and  explain, 
and  be  happier  doubtless  for  her  slow  night's  communing, 
and  stronger  to  bear  up  beneath  this  ill  that  had  fallen 
upon  her. 

But  she  did  not  return;  and,  when  morn  had  worn 
into  afternoon,  and  that  again  had  given  place  to  signs 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  259 

of  coming  night,  great  fear  smote  upon  Miss  Maturin's 
heart. 

"  0  kind,  kind  Being  who  rulest  over  all,  subdue  and 
kill  this  torturing  fear,  and  grant  that  her  sweet  body 
•till  holds  within  it  the  life  we  know  and  prize!"  So  she 
prayed. 

Again  her  room  was  searched,  in  the  hope  that  it  might 
afford  some  clew  to  her  disappearance;  but  even  the  ortho- 
dox few  words  always  to  be  found  upon  the  dressing- table 
of  the  newly  flown  were  absent  here,  and  there  was  liter- 
ally nothing  to  give  the  mind  food  for  further  search. 
The  servants,  only  a  degree  less  interested  than  the  prin- 
cipals in  this  sad  drama,  went  about  softly  on  tiptoe, 
whispering  to  each  other  at  unfrequented  turns  in  the 
many  corridors,  with  faces  pale  and  sympathetic. 

As  night  fell  upon  that  terrible  day  that  rose  upon 
Dolores'  flight,  Miss  Maturin  grew  distracted.  But 
Bouverie,  who  had  not  left  her  all  day,  except  to  wander 
wildly  through  the  woods  and  such  quaint  spots  as  had 
drawn  Dolores  toward  them  in  her  careless  wanderings  by 
stream  and  lawn,  still  professed  himself  almost  passion- 
ately certain  of  her  return. 

But,  as  the  dying  hours  waned  and  faded,  and  still  no 
tidings  of  her  reached  them,  Bouverie  too  became  half 
maddened,  and,  rushing  forth,  penetrated  far  into  the 
dense  woodlands,  seeking  her  who  he  could  not  yet  be- 
lieve had  finally  deserted  him. 

The  morning  light  saw  him  at  the  railway-station;  but 
the  clerk  at  the  ticket-office  could  tell  him  nothing.  He 
had  been  absent  yesterday,  unavoidably  detained  by  ill- 
ness, and  the  young  man  who  had  filled  his  place  was  now 
many  miles  away,  returned  to  his  own  post.  He  was  not 
much  of  a  young  man — no  perspicuity,  no  nothing — so  he 
ran  on. 

But  Bonverie  cared  for  none  of  these  things;  he  thought 
only  of  what  was  next  to  be  done.  Could  the  young  man 
be  telegraphed  for?  Certainly.  He  was  telegraphed  for, 
but  could  not  come  until  the  next  day;  so  that  a  whole 
Taluable  twenty-four  hours  was  lost. 

But  when  he  did  come  he  knew  something.  Yes,  he 
remembered  the  young  lady  perfectly  well — a  young  li\dy 
with  a  gray  ulster  and  a  face  as  white  as  death.  She  was 
small — short  he  called  it — with  very  fair  hair.  She  seemed 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

quite  composed  when  asking  for  her  ticket,  but  sail-like, 
and  she — 

For  what  place  had  she  taken  her  t'cket?  For  London. 
Oh,  yes,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  that!  He  remem. 
bered  it  as  clearly  as  though  she  took  it  only  an  hour  ago. 
He  had  wondered  a  good  deal  at  the  the  time  about  the 
fact  of  a  young  lady  starting  for  town  at  such  an  hour. 
But  she  was  evidently  a  swell,  and  swells  are  forever  doing 
something  "contrary,"  and  are  not  therefore  to  be  won- 
dered at  at  all. 

Would  he  know  her  again?  Why,  surely,  yes,  unless 
his  eyes  played  him  false!  Being  shown  a  photograph  of 
Dolores,  he  at  once  declared  it  was  "  herself,  and  no  mis- 
take," the  young  lady  in  the  gray  ulster  with  the  sad  facet 
When  he  had  said  this,  Bouverie  had  fallen  back  a  bit. 
She  was  alive  then!  Alive!  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
grew  even  a  shade  pale.  Emotion  overcame  him.  A 
woman  in  the  same  circumstance  would  have  burst  into 
tears.  But  such  poor  comfort  was  denied  him.  To  know 
even  this  however,  that  she  still  lived,  although  parted  from 
them,  it  was  a  most  blessed  relief.  What  horrible  thoughts 
had  been  his  during  those  past  interminable  hours,  he  never 
divulged  to  any  man. 

And  now  his  search  for  Dolores  was  begun  in  earnest. 
Even  the  vastness  and  vagueness  of  the  field  of  labor 
did  not  dishearten  him.  London,  that  huge  reservoir  for 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  how  should  he  find  her 
there? 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

DAT  after  day  passes,  and  still  there  is  no  result.  It 
is  now  the  seventh  day  since  Dolores'  flight,  and,  tired 
and  worn  both  in  body  and  spirit,  Bouverie  enters  the 
drawing-room  at  Greylands.  He  has  returned  from  a 
second  unsuccessful  search  in  London,  and  feels  despond- 
ency making  its  prey  of  him  as  he  sinks  heavily  into  a 
chair.  "No  news  again?"  says  Miss  Maturin,  rising  un- 
consciously from  her  seat.  There  is  no  expectancy  in  her 
voice,  only  a  mute  protest  against  the  evilness  of  her  fate. 

She  looks  old  and  thoroughly  broken  down.  No  one 
but  he  or  she  who  has  undergone  it  can  fully  appreciate 
the  absolute  horror  of  inactive  suspense,  the  wearing 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  261 

iety,  the  enforced  quietude,  the  turmoil  of  flying  thoughts 
linked  to  the  trembling  body  so  eager  for  pursuit,  yet  so 
cruelly  compelled  to  be  inert. 

All  this  Miss  Maturin  has  learned  to  endure;  but  the 
study  of  it  has  told  upon  hor.  Whilst  Bouverie  has  been 
hurrying  hither  and  thither  with  wild  and  restless  persis- 
tency, she  has  had  to  sit  impatiently  at  home  waiting  for 
what  may  never  come,  watching  each  day  fading  into 
night,  each  night  brightening  into  day,  without  bringing 
her  any  hope.  If  she  too  were  to  quit  Greylands  and  en- 
ter on  the  search,  how  would  the  end  be?  What  if  the 
child  should  return  in  her  absence,  and  find  no  one  there 
to  receive  or  welcome  her? 

Detectives  have  been  employed — nay,  are  still  and  will 
be  ever  employed,  until  such  time  as  hope  shall  be  proved 
to  be  without  foundation.  They  have  been  singularly 
kind  and  sympathetic,  touched  no  doubt  by  the  genuine 
grief  of  those  who  have  employed  them.  They  have  now 
and  then  even  held  out  hopes;  but  London  certainly  was 
troublesome,  deep — very  deep.  No  knowing  what  dodge 
the  party  might  be  up  to  when  the  lair  was  London! 
Eventually  no  doubt  they  would  come  upon  her  tracks; 
but  the  field  was  wide.  It  was  an  artful  thought.  Still 
there  was  hope,  et  ccetera.  It  was  poor  comfort,  and  the 
word  "artful  "  went  to  Miss  Maturin's  soul. 

She  advances  now  toward  Bouverie,  looking  jaded  and 
heart  sick.  His  tale  is  soon  told — a  very  barren  one.  No 
comfort  is  in  it;  as  regards  hope  it  is  poverty-stricken  in 
the  extreme. 

"  I  bring  you  nothing,  you  see,"  he  suys  at  last,  fling- 
ing out  his  arms  with  a  certain  recklessness.  "  You 
should  get  somebody  else  to  help  you.  I  am  evidently 
out  of  luck.  All  my  love  for  her  does  not  bring  me  one 
jot  nearer  to  her;  I  am  beginning  to  despair." 

"  Oh,  not  that,  Dick!"  she  entreats  feverishly.  If 
you  do  that,  what  is  left  to  me?"  It  is  a  tacit  acknowl- 
edgment that  despair  has  been  hers  long  since.  "  In  your 
belief  I  live,  and  " — passionately — "  there  still  is  hope — 
there  must  be!" 

"Where  then,"  demands  he  half  irritably — "in  what 
direction  does  it  lie?  Seven  whole  days,  and  neither 
word  nor  sign  from  her!  Gun  it  be  that  she  would  will- 
fully condemn  us  to  the  torture  of  misery  we  are  endur- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEABT. 

ing?  If  it  be  proved  so,  I  shall  know  that  the  girl  I  called 
Dolores  never  existed." 

"  Do  not  wrong  herl"  exclaims  Miss  Maturin,  sinking 
as  if  from  a  blow.  "  Not  now  when  we  know  so  little! 
Afterward" — she  pauses,  and  her  hands  involuntarily 
meet  and  clasp  each  other — "  afterward,"  she  says,  in  a 
sinking  tone,  "you  may  regret  it." 

"  I  do  not  wrong,  I  do  not  blame  her,"  says  the  young 
man,  hastily.  *'  As  you  say,  we  know  so  little.  ]lut  to 
live,  and  let  us  suffer  like  this,  seems — n 

"  Ay,  if  she  lives,"  murmurs  Miss  Maturin. 

The  agony  in  her  face  is  so  vivid  that  it  startles  him; 
it  angers  him,  the  more  terrible  in  that  her  awful  insinu- 
ation seems  to  give  life  and  reality  to  the  haunting  dread 
that  has  been  consuming  his  own  soul  all  these  past 
dreary  days  and  hours.  In  the  sudden,  horrible  fear  that 
now  seizes  him,  he  lets  his  ungovernable  rage  against  fate 
turn  upon  her. 

'•'If'?"  he  repeats,  with  a  frowning  vehemence  that 
would  be  abominable  if  it  were  not  so  sadly  miserable; 
«  t  jf  >j>»>  Why  should  there  be  a  doubt  thrown  upon  it? 
Of  course  she  lives.  It  only  wants  time  to  find  her — time 
and  patience — nothing  more." 

"We  shall  never  find  her,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  a 
curious  monotony  in  her  tone,  turning  her  haggard  eyes 
to  his — '*  never;  she  is  dead  I"  She  raises  her  hand  in  a 
somewhat  aimless  fashion  to  her  forehead,  and  lets  it  fall 
again.  "  Deadl"  she  repeats;  and  then  her  tone  grows 
•harper.  "Oh,  my  little  one,"  she  cries  aloud,  "my 
pretty  child,  my  little,  gentle,  pretty  girl!" 

"  She  is  not  deadl"  exclaims  Bouverie,  fiercely.  Rising 
to  his  feet,  as  though  it  were  impossible  to  him  longer  to 
sit  still,  he  begins,  with  rapid  strides,  to  pace  the  room. 
"  How  can  yon  let  such  a  thought  pass  your  lips?  There 
is  no  truth  in  it.  To  lose  hope — even  the  last  shred  of 
it — is  to  lose  all.  Life  then  would  cease  to  be  a  possi- 
bility. It  was  absurd,  my  speaking  of  despair  just  now. 
There  shall  be  no  such  word  for  me."  His  short-lived 
courage  dies,  and  his  tone  changes.  "It  is  this  cruel 
inaction  that  is  so  terriblel"  he  criee  presently.  "I  wish 
I  had  not  left  town,  but  I  knew  you  would  be  craving  to 
lew  me.  I  would  I  were  back  again  to  those  full  but 
Mtndleas  street*.,  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  ad 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  263 

ft  were,  forever!  In  the  very  moving  hope  seemed  to 
Ve.  Morning,  noon  and  night  I  trod  those  hot  pave- 
ments, looking  for  her,  and  waiting  for  news  from  the 
detectives,  until  every  wretched  stone  in  the  neighborhood 
•eema  burned  into  my  brain  I" 

Coming  to  a  stand-still  before  the  mantel-piece,  he  leant 
Bpon  it,  and  lets  his  face  fall  forward  upon  his  arms. 

"Dick!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  anxiously,  unnerved  by  hit 
ludden  break-down.  Then  all  at  once  her  own  fortitude 
forsakes  her,  and  she  bursts  into  tears. 

It  is  all  so  miserable.  Is  the  child  senseless  or  cruel  to 
leave  them  to  suffer  untold  torments  thus;  or  is  it,  as  she 
truly  believes,  that  she  has  passed  beyond  the  world's  ken, 
its  love,  its  censure,  for  evermore?  Is  she  now  lying 
quietly  within  her  grave — arms  folded  upon  the  marble 
breast,  and  sunny  hair  all  dull  and  fading? 

A  sharp  exclamation  breaks  from  her. 

"  Oh,  Dick!  Oh!  the  sweet  smile  of  her!"  she  cries 
out,  trembling  and  paling.  '*  I  see  her  now  before  me  as 
•he  used  to  be  in  her  little  white  frock,  and  with  her 
gentle  pensive  expression  and  her  loving  eyes.  No,  no, 
no;  I  tell  you,  were  she  living,  her  tender  heart  would 
hold  her  back  from  inflicting  this  pain  upon  us!  She 
would  have  written.  There  would  have  been  some  kindly 
word,  however  vague.  But  there  is  nothing.  She  is 
dead,  I  tell  you,  dead!" 

"  If  she  were,  I  should  know  it,"  says  Bouverie,  coldly, 
growing,  however,  ghastly  pale.  "  With  my  mind  fixed 
eo  immovably  upon  her,  it  is  impossible  but  that  I  should 
feel  some  sense  of  irretrievable  loss  as  her  spirit  fled  from 
earth  to  heaven.  And  I  have  felt  nothing  yet  but  the 
Bame  old  uniform  misery.  No;  she  is  hidden  away  some- 
where in  that  great  Babylon  of  ours,  alone,  friendless, 
perhaps,  but  living."  Then  he  turns  suddenly,  and  forcei 
himself  to  meet  Miss  Maturin's  eyes.  "  What — what 
money  had  she?"  asks  he,  suddenly,  compelling  the  hate- 
ful question  to  pass  his  white  lips. 

Dear  Heaven,  to  picture  her  to  himself  without  money 
in  those  crowded  garish  streets!  To  what  indignities 
might  she  not  have  been  subjected!  What  soiling  winds 
must  have  rushed  past  her  pure  white  soul!  He  sets  hit 
teeth  hard,  and  a  strong  shudder  shakes  him. 

"She  could  not  h»Y«  had  *U»W  returns  Miss  Ma- 


«64  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

turin,  wretchedly.  "  Whenever  she  wanted  money,  she 
asked  for  it  and  got  it;  but  she  was  such  a  simple  child 
that  her  wants  were  few,  and,  as  for  her  gowns,  when 
she  chose  them,  I  paid  for  them.  She  hated  bills,  she 
used  to  say;  and  all  indeed  she  ever  wanted  a  check  for 
was  to  help  some  poor  soul  out  of  trouble  or  render  the 
hearts  of  little  children  glad.  She  had  a  most  sweet  and 
perfect  nature!"  murmured  Miss  Maturin,  a  spasm  cross- 
ing her  face. 

I  "  Why  do  you  say  '  had '?  What  perversity  it  is!" crifi 
Bouverie,  with  a  second  burst  of  unreasonable  anger.  "  1 
tell  you  she  still  lives;  this  very  moment,as  I  idle  here,  there 
may  be  news  for  me!"  He  glances  nervously  at  his  watch. 
"I  must  go,"  he  says,  impatiently,  although  there  is  still 
quite  a  long  hour  before  the  next  train  can  start.  "  I  may 
hear  news  of  her;  and,  when  she  is  found  " — turning  ea- 
gerly to  Miss  Maturin — "let  me  impress  this  upon  you — 
she  must  not  be  chidden!  No  unkind  word,  no  reproach 
however  delicately  veiled,  must  be  administered  to  her. 
Has  she  not  known  unhappiness  enough?  What  are  our 
sufferings  to  hers?" 

"  Alas!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  just  looking  at  him. 

"I  know  what  you  would  say,"  he  hurries  on  feverish- 
ly— "  that  my  chances  of  recovering  her  are  small;  yet  I 
still  cling  to  my  faith  in  the  belief  that,  if  she  were — were 
gone  from  us,  I  should  know  it.  She  is  surely  alive,  in 
London — somewhere — " 

"Is  there  any  greater  consolation  in  that  thought?" 
asks  she,  in  a  low  voice,  her  head  sunk  upon  her  breast. 
"In  the  long  night-watches  my  eyes  seem  ever  striving 
to  follow  her,  and  sometimes  I  see  her  lying  quietly  with 
folded  hands  within  her  shroud — " 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  interrupts  he  wildly. 

"And  sometimes  she  is  wandering,  weary,  foot- sore, 
lost,  through  the  dimly-lighted  streets.  I  have  seen  tears 
falling  from  her  eyes  in  these  nightly  vigils;  I  have  seen 
her  little  gentle,  gracious  figure  sin-inking  from  the  touch 
of  passers-by,  and  yet  moving  ever  onward  seeking  for 
rest  and  peace,  one  white  pure  spot  on  the  dark  ground 
of  the  picture.  I  think  I  shall  go  mad!"  murmurs  Miss 
Maturin  very  softly,  rising  suddenly  to  her  feet  and  rais- 
ing her  hands  to  her  head. 

"  This  is  no  time  for  madness,"  says  Dick,  gently,  draw- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  265 

Jng  down  her  arms  again  and  regarding  her  fixedly — "for 
work,  rather,  and  untiring  energy." 

"The  energy  is  all  yours  You  do  not  comprehend 
what  it  is  to  stay  here  as  I  do,  counting  the  hours  as  they 
pass,  and  wearing  out  my  heart  with  gnawing  anxiety. 
Oh,  the  thought  of  that  gaudy  town,  with  its  glare  and 
its  false  glitter,  and  my  little  tender  girl  wandering 
through  it!  Who  was  there  to  pity  her,  to  give  her  shel- 
ter? The  world  is  hard.  When  I  think  of  her" — raising 
her  worn  face  to  Bouverie — "as  I  ever  do,  first  finding 
herself  alone  in  that  cruel  town,  when  I  see  the  dawning 
terror  on  her  young  face,  I  tell  you  I — " 

"Don't!"  interrupts  Bouverie,  sharply.  "Are  we  not 
already  bad  enough  without  such  imaginings  as  those? 
I  can  not  endure  them.  I  too  have  felt  maddened  when 
I  thought  of  her  alone — there!"  He  draws  his  breath 
with  difficulty.  "Surely  the  intolerable  anguish  we  are 
bearing  now  is  enough?"  he  says  again  more  quietly. 

"  It  is  not!"  cried  Miss  Maturin  vehemently.  "There 
is  another  thing  that  weighs  upon  me;  I  must  speak  of  it. 
If  she  is  dead,  why  do  I  live?  Am  I  insensate,  heartless, 
that  I  can  so  easily  discuss  even  her  probable  death  with 
you?  "Oh,'" — smiting  her  hands  together — "  how  is  it 
that  I  still  draw  breath,  whilst  she — " 

"  She  lives!"  repeats  Bouverie  doggedly. 

Miss  Maturin  attempts  no  more  to  contradict  him;  she 
falls  into  a  profound  reverie.  Presently  however  she 
raises  her  head  and  looks  at  him. 

"You  are  tired?"  she  says. 

"  Yes — wearily — deadly  tired." 

"  Let  me  get  you  something,"  exclaims  she,  contrition 
in  her  glance;  "  and  forgive  me  if  my  mind,  being  so 
cruelly  occupied  at  times,  forgets.  What  shall  it  be?" 

"  Brandy,  then,  if  anything,"  replies  he  moodily. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  not  that!"  says  Miss  Maturin  ner- 
Tously.  "  Say  something  else— anything — " 

"  Pshaw!"  "interrupts  he,  with  a  short,  unmirthful 
laugh.  "  Do  you  think  I  shall  come  to  harm  of  that  sort? 
Nothing  could  affect  me  now — nothing — save  news  of  her! 
However,  as  you  will — some  coffee  then.  I  have  touched 
nothing  since  yesterday." 

"  Come  and  have  something  to  eat,  Dick,"  says  Miss 


266  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Matui-m,  in  a  tremulous  tone,  an  almost  imploring 
laying  her  fingers  on  his  arm. 

"  I  couldn't  indeed.     It  is  of  no  use  asking  me." 

"  Where  did  you  sleep  last  night?" 

"Nowhere,"  returns  he,  briefly. 

"  And  all  those  other  nights?    Have  you  been  home?** 

"  I  have  no  home,"  says  Bouverie.  "  Do  you  think  I 
could  find  rest  beneath  the  roof  of  the  woman  who  drove 
her  into  exile?  Even  to  see  her  would  be  more  than  I 
could  patiently  endure.  Believe  me,  we  are  better  apart. 
There  was  one  night  I  was  wandering  by  the  side  of  Deru. 
Lake,  and  Mrs.  Wemyss  was  driving  by — she  must  hav» 
seen  me  from  the  road,  I  think.  I  can't  remember  now; 
it  seems  all  a  century  ago,"  he  says,  pressing  his  hand 
distractedly  to  his  forehead.  "  But  I  know  she  was  very 
kind.  She  made  me  get  into  her  carriage — she  was  re- 
turning from  some  dinner  somewhere;  I  can  not  recollect; 
but  she  was  wonderfully  kind,  and  she  made  me  sleep  at 
her  house  that  night.  The  next  morning  I  went  up  to 
town  again;  but  she  comforted  me  at  the  time — I  can  re- 
member that;  and  she  spoke  so  tenderly  of  Dolores.  Yes, 
I  remember  all  that!" 

"For  the  future,  Dick,  this  is  your  home,"  says  Miss 
Maturin,  "  if  you  will  take  pity  on  a  most  unhappy  old 
woman.  I  have  no  one  to  talk  to  about  her,  except  you. 
Come  to  me  whenever  you  can,  and  consider  this  house 
your  own." 

"It  is  the  only  place  I  ever  think  of  as  home,"  returns 
Dick,  brokenly.  "  Once  it  was  hers!" 

CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THB  morning  has  lengthened  into  noon.  Through 
the  jealously-guarded  windows  the  garish  sunlight  is 
forcing  its  way,  in  spite  of  blinds  and  curtains  closely 
drawn. 

Two  or  three  rakish  little  beams  are  frolicking  upon 
the  coverlet  of  the  sick-bed,  dancing  over  the  small  lan- 
guid hand,  and  nestling  cozily  in  the  short  masses  of  the 
su^o^7  hair.  They  are  playing  too  upon  the  melancholy 
;ut  lightly,  more  delicately,  as  though  in  their  own 
fft/olous  fashion  they  understood  Dolores'  sorrow  and 
wouK.  fain  grieve  with  hei; 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  $67 

Kow  she  opens  her  eyes.  These  last  three  weeks,  in 
which  she  has  lain  buttling  with  death,  have  been  interm- 
inably long.  She  has  fought  with  the  Great  Victor  as 
only  the  young  and  strong  can  fight;  and  when  at  last  she 
woke  to  consciousness,  it  was  to  tell  the  anxious  watchers 
round  her  that  at  least  there  was  hope — a  faint  one.  Pale 
us  a  little  snow-drop,  she  lay  speechless,  exhausted,  rais- 
ing to  them  in  silent  but  eager  inquiry  great  hollow  eyes 
that  only  served  to  render  more  emaciated  the  while  faco 
that  held  them. 

"  Ah,  so  you  are  awake!"  says  now  a  strong  but  kindly 
Toice  that  seems  to  come  from  behind  the  curtains.  A 
face  that  suits  the  voice  follows  it,  and  looks  with  very 
interested  eyes  upon  the  spent  and  broken  little  form 
within  the  bed.  "Well,  you  have  had  a  nice  long  sleep, 
and  " — with  a  scrutinizing  glance — "  you  are  better — yes, 
decidedly  better." 

Dolores  opens  her  lips,  and  turns  wistfully  toward  her. 

"  No,  not  a  word,"  says  her  new  friend  hurriedly.  "  It 
is  forbidden."  Then,  seeing  the  growing  anguish  on  the 
young  face,  she  relents.  "  Well,  get  your  question  over 
as  quickly  as  you  can,"  she  says  begrudgingly.  "  Rest  is 
the  only  thing  allowed  you — not  speech,  believe  me." 

"You,"  says  Dolores,  feebly,  fighting  with  weak  mem- 
ory— "  you  came  to  me  across  the  hall  when — " 

"  When  you  sunk  fainting  into  my  arms,"  interrupts 
Mrs.  Edgeworth,  quickly.  "  Quite  so.  Goodness  knows 
how  you  brought  yourself  to  such  a  state  of  weakness;  but 
never  mind  that.  When  you  are  stronger  you  can  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"  How  long?"  asks  Dolores,  vaguely. 

Speech,  after  all,  she  finds  is  difficult  to  her.  She 
slowly  stretches  out  one  hand  and  feebly  slips  it  into  that 
of  the  housekeeper.  Mrs.  Edgeworth,  in  spite  of  the 
strong-mindedness  written  upon  her  broad  brow,  is  not 
proof  against  this  weak  entreaty. 

"  Since  you  entered  this  house  in  such  dismal  fashion?" 
she  replies]!  cheerily.  "  Why,  three  weeks,  I  should  say, 
or  a  day  more  or  less." 

"Three  weeks!"  repeats  Dolores,  paling.     " Three?" 

"  Yes,  quite  three,"  says  Mrs.  Edgeworth.  "But" — 
noting  the  misery  on  the  pretty  emaciated  face — "  never 


868  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

mind  that.     Soon  you  will  be  able  to  write  to  your  friends 
and  tell  them  all  about  it." 

She  looks  keenly  at  the  girl  as  she  says  this,  curiosity 
not  being  unknown  to  her;  but  Dolores,  with  a  subdued 
cry,  turns  from  her  and  hides  her  face  amongst  the  laven- 
der-scented sheets. 

Two  days  later  finds  her  stronger,  more  able  to  converse 
on  trying  subjects. 

"Who  is  in  the  house  besides  you?"  she  asks  Mrs. 
Edgeworth  one  morning,  detaining  her  as  she  receives 
from  the  housekeeper's  hand  the  breakfast  to  which  she 
now  begins  quite  to  look  forward. 

"  The  master,  Mr.  Mildmay,  for  one,"  returns  she, 
with  a  smile;  "for  another,  myself;  and,  for  a  third,  Mary 
Jane,  the  kitchen-maid.  But  she  don't  count,  my  dear, 
as  she  is  of  no  value  whatsoever.  And  then,  if  you  must 
have  a  fourth,  why,  there  is  you,"  says  she,  giving  the 
girl  a  kindly  tuck  up  in  her  little  bed;  "  though  perhaps 
you  didn't  quite  know  that  you  belonged  to  us." 

"  All,"  says  Dolores,  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  "  how 
good  you  all  are  to  me,  a  stranger!  But — but  I  am  un- 
happy about  one  thing.  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Mildmay; 
I  have  not  thanked  him  for  all  his  kindness." 

"  Well,  you  shall  some  day." 

"You  I  can  never  thank  enough  in  words!"  goes  on 
Dolores,  looking  at  her  with  clear  earnest  eyes.  "  But 
perhaps  in  time  you  will  know  how  grateful  I  am."  She 
leans  her  head  back  on  the  pillow  and  looks  up  at  the 
housekeeper  wistfully. 

"  Why,  bless  you,  child,  I  don't  want  time  to  tell  me 
that!"  says  the  good  woman,  sitting  down  and  cuddling 
the  little  hand  in  true  womanish  fashion.  "  Do  you  think 
I  am  blind?  No  words  could  be  so  eloquent  as  your  pretty 
eyes.  Deary  me,"  she  says,  with  a  quick  sigh,  "'tis 
many  a  year  since  I  saw  those  that  were  like  them!  Coma 
now  and  tell  me  then.  Do  you  really  want  to  see  Mr* 
Mildmay?  He  has  seen  you  often  enough,  I  warrant,"  j 

"  Seen  me?" 

"  Ay.  Couldn't  be  kept  from  the  room  after  his  first 
sight  fell  on  you.  And  well  I  know  the  reason,  poor  gen- 
tleman!" She  rises  from  her  seat,  with  another  sigh  that 
has  nothing  to  do  with  Dolores  or  any  one  of  her  generation. 
'*  If  yoa  wish  to  see  him,  dear,  I  will  tell  him  so,"  she 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  269 

gays  gently,  gazing  down  absently  at  the  fragile  figure  in 
the  bed. 

"  To  thank  him,"  murmurs  Dolores,  softly. 

In  a  little  while  becomes  to  her.  The  door  is  opened 
with  extraordinary  slowness,  and  a  tall  man,  bent  some- 
what, and  of  a  very  elderly  aspect,  creeps  into  the  room; 
he  advances  toward  her  on  tiptoe  with  the  nervous  tread 
of  one  to  whom  illness  is  unknown. 

With  great  care  he  parts  the  heavy  curtains  of  the 
gaunt  old  four-poster,  and  looks  down  upon  the  pale 
child  resting  on  the  pillows.  Then  all  at  once,  as  it 
seems  to  Dolores,  she  knows  that  some  at  least  of  her 
feverish  dreams  were  realities.  Not  once,  but  many 
times,  this  same  worn  face  had  gazed  at  her  during  her 
illness.  And  now  she  recollects  that  ever  with  the  sense 
of  his  coming  had  come  too  a  strange  certainty  of  peace. 

In  those  half-unconscious  hours  he  had  stolen  into  her 
room,  seeming  to  her,  in  her  miserable  incoherency,  to 
blend  and  make  one  with  the  motley  crew  that  hedged 
her  in  on  every  side  and  made  havoc  of  her  mind.  During 
those  sickly  visions  he  had  appeared  to  bend  over  her;  a 
few  words  had  fallen  from  him.  Now  those  words  come 
back  to  her  again;  some  ring  clear  and  thoroughly  dis- 
tinct. Again  she  seems  to  be  listening  to  them,  although 
throughout  the  whole  of  this  last  orthodox  visit  he  is  sin- 
gularly silent  and  distrait. 

"Ha,  dear  me!  Bless  my  soul!  Tut,  tut,  tut!"  So 
Mr.  Mildmay  used  to  mutter  on  every  occasion  when  he 
appeared  at  her  bedside.  The  rich  eloquence  of  these 
remarks  was  never  improved  upon;  perhas  there  was  no 
room  for  improvement.  They  were  always  the  same,  and 
filled  with  a  vivid  concern  that  used  to  bring  comfort  in 
some  odd  fashion  to  the  little  languid  sufferer.  The  ab* 
surd  formula  never  altered,  but  it  never,  too,  lost  its 
sweetness  for  her.  Somebody  felt  for  her;  in  that  lay  the 
charm. 

Now,  as  he  leans  silently  over  her,  she  can  aee  him 
more  clearly,  can  convince  herself  more  positively  of  his 
reality.  He  is  a  tall  man,  bent  more  by  the  scourging  of 
fate  than  by  years — a  man  certainly  more  ginned  against 
than  ginning,  but  nevertheless  bound  in  chains  of  some 
sort.  There  is  a  weakness,  a  suspicion  of  nervous  irreso- 
luteneas  about  the  lower  jaw  which  strikes  one 


270  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

but  the  clear  large  eyes  are  open  and  full  of  kmdlinewi. 
About  his  whole  aspect  there  is  a  savor  of  unworldliness, 
and  the  air  of  one  who  for  many  years  has  withdrawn 
himself  from  his  fellows  and  found  his  sole  companions  in 
the  voiceless  children  of  nature. 

"  I  hear  you  are  better,"  he  says,  at  last,  breaking 
through  a  sudden  reverie  that  had  evidently  arisen  out  of 
sight  of  her.  "  The  thought  is  a  great  comfort  to  me.  I 
felt  for  jou.  Yes,  yes." 

His  tone  is  awkward.  He  does  not  find  easily  the  wordi 
he  would  gladly  use. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Mildmay,  come  here!"  says  Dolores,  with 
some  of  her  old  impulsiveness. 

She  rises  upon  her  elbow  and  pushes  back  the  cretonne 
curtains  that  help  to  shield  her  from  the  glare  of  the 
afternoon  sun,  that  she  may  the  better  look  upon  her  host 
with  the  gentle  gratitude  that  is  overfilling  her. 

"  Come  here,"  she  says,  with  pretty  insistence,  "  that 
I  may  thank  you  properly." 

"  No,  my  dear,  no!  No  thanks  are  necessary,"  says 
Mr.  Mildmay  nervously. 

Even  while  saying  this,  a  curious  expression  crosses  his 
face,  a  vague  wonder,  a  painful  uncertainty  that  renders 
him  mute.  He  had  a  rather  pretty  speech  to  make  to 
her — arranged  in  the  study  before  he  came  up;  but  now 
it  forsakes  him,  and  he  stares  at  her  profoundly,  no  words 
upon  his  lips. 

"  But  yes,  indeed,"  says  Dolores,  tears  rising  in  her 
eyes.  "I  have  been  a  great,  great  trouble  to  you.  All 
the  gratitude  of  my  life  is  owing  to  you,  because  you  have 
saved  that  life.  It  almost  belongs  to  you,  doesn't  it?  At 
least,  I  feel  it  so,"  she  ends  sweetly. 

"Tut,  tut!  You  must  not  speak  Jike  that.  But  get 
well,  get  strong.  That  will  show  gratitude,"  says  Mr. 
Mildmay,  knocking  his  eyeglass  against  his  forefinger  in 
a  desultory  fashion;  indeed,  hi-s  words  are  desultory  too. 

He  glances  at  her  furtively.  Again  the  strange  reflect- 
ive look  covers  his  face.  It  seems  as  though  he  is  strug- 
gling with  some  force  that  would  keep  back  from  him  a 
memory  lying  hidden  in  the  troubled  past.  Is  it  a  memory 
of  some  one  whom  she,  Dolores,  resembles? 

The  odd  part  of  it  is  that  he  too  seems  familiar  to  her. 
Is  the  transmigration  theory  true?  And  have  they  per- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  371 

chance  hobnobbed  in  gome  earlier  existence?  This  thought 
brings  a  smile  to  her  pale  lips. 

Certainly  there  is  some  little  indefinable  expression 
about  him  that  reminds  her  of  some  one.  She  puzzles 
over  it.  Is  it  that  sensitive  movement  of  the  lips,  or  that 
idle  contraction  of  the  e}rebrows?  Beyond  doubt  he  is 
like  some  one  she  knows — but  who?  That  is  it.  The  tor- 
ment of  not  being  able  to  "  place"  her  discovery  irritates 
her  foolishly,  as  she  lies  there  weak  and  powerless. 

Then  some  sounds  strike  on  her  dulled  senses,  and  she 
knows  that  Mr.  Mildmay  has  been  talking  to  her  for  some 
time. 

"  You  have  been  a  good  child,  very  good,"  he  says. 
"So  Mrs.  Edge  worth  tells  me.  Excellent  woman — eh? 
But  she  says,  too,  you  are  not  to  talk." 

"Ah,  but  1  must  talk  to  you!"  says  Dolores,  holding 
out  to  him  an  imploring  hand.  "  You  are  my  preserver. 
May  I  not  tell  you  how — " 

"No,  no;  tell  me  nothing,"  interrupts  he  hurriedly, 
"except  that  you  are  on  the  high  road  to  recovery." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  recover,"  says  Dolores  brightly.  "  I  feel 
quite  equal  to  getting  up  already.  I  am  young,  you  see, 
and  so  strong." 

It  is  almost  laughable  to  hear  her  say  this — such  a  little 
frail  waxen  lily  as  she  looks,  smiling  up  at  him  out  of  deli- 
cate pillows. 

But  Mr.  Mildmay  fails  to  see  the  joke.  An  expression 
of  intense  sadness  makes  itself  discernible  upon  his  mobile 
lips  and  sensitive  brows. 

"Ay,  youth  is  ever  strong,"  he  says;  "yet  there  have 
been  sad,  sad  exceptions." 

Again  his  voice  grows  dreamy,  again  that  strange  con- 
centrated gaze  fixes  itself  upon  the  fragile  invalid.  Be- 
neath it  she  grows  nervous.  Is  this  kindly  old  man 
eccentric,  or — or  insane?  An  irrepressible  pang  of  fear 
•eizes  her  for  an  instant,  and  then  dies  away,  never  to 
return.  Surely  there  is  no  insanity  in  the  gentleness  of 
the  glance  directed  at  her,  or  in  the  almost  womanish 
sweetness  of  the  benevolent  smile! 

"  And  now  I  must  leave  you,  child,"  he  says  presently, 
rousing  himself  from  his  abstraction,  "  unless  I  would 
mndergo  a  scolding  at  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Edgeworth.  Get 


172  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

well,  get  strong,  and  then  you  shall  tell  me  the  story  of 
how  it  was  you  were  driven  hither." 

Dolores  shrinks  from  him.  A  great  terror  grows  within 
her  eyes.  The  delicate  hand  lying  upon  the  coverlet  be- 
gins to  tremble  convulsively.  Is  he  asking  her  to  deliver 
up  her  secret?  Now — now,  when  she  has  endured  so  far  and 
so  heavily?  Would  he  have  her  undo  all  her  work  in  one 
swift  moment,  and  cast  the  agonies  of  many  hours — that 
have  been  longer  than  the  longest  years — to  the  winds? 
Oh,  no,  not  that!  To  be  again  the  cause  of  shame  and 
misery  to  those  two  to  whose  happiness,  when  weighed  in 
the  balance  of  her  soul's  reckoning,  her  own  happiness  is 
as  naught!  It  must  not  be,  even  though  by  her  refusal  to 
speak  the  sum  of  her  soriows  be  increased  a  thousandfold, 
by  the  thought  that  gross  ingratitude  will  be  imputed  to 
her. 

Mr.  Mildmay,  noticing  the  instant  change  in  her  expres- 
sive face,  is  shocked  by  it,  and  by  the  knowledge  it  betrays 
to  him.  Poor  child!  Does  she  imagine  he  would  heap 
another  grief  upon  her  already  overburdened  heart? 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,"  he  says  hurriedly.  "  Whatever 
you  wish  to  keep  sacred  to  yourself  shall  so  be  kept.  I 
seek  to  know  nothing  but  what  you  desire  to  tell.  All  I 
would  hear  is  how  I  can  serve  you. " 

He  pauses  abruptly.  He  is  evidently  greatly  distressed 
by  her  want  of  confidence  in  him,  and  very  anxious  that 
she  should  know  how  good  a  friend  he  means  to  be  to 
her. 

"  Ah,  sir!"  says  Dolores. 

No  words  come  to  her  save  these,  though  she  would 
gladly  have  made  larger  acknowledgment  of  his  goodness; 
but  in  her  gentle  eyes  there  lies  a  world  of  thankfulness. 
Her  hand  has  ceased  to  tremble,  and,  though  her  sensitive 
lips  still  quiver  sorrowfully,  her  whole  face  is  expressive  of 
the  very  keenest  gratitude. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Edgeworth  how  it  is  with  you  as  far  as  you 
can,"  says  her  new  friend  gently,  "and  how  we  can  help 
you,  and  be  guided  by  her,  my  dear,  where  it  is  possible 
to  you,  because  she  is  a  good  and  kind  woman,  and  the 
advice  of  a  such  a  one  is  always  of  the  extrernest  value." 

"I  will  obey  you  as  far  as  I  dare.  I  would  that  I  could 
tell  you  all,"  says  Dolores,  with  emotion.  "  But — my 
accret  is  not  all  mine;  itipjrolves  the  happiness  of  others. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  873 

The  telling  of  it  might  destroy  their  peace.  Do  not  think 
me  ungrateful  if  I  withhold  much  from  you;  but — it  ig 
all  so  cruel!"  she  breaks  out,  miserably  clasping  her  hands. 
"Even  the  consolation  of  speech — of  sympathy  is  denied 
me!  I  want  to  tell  you  everything,  but  I  can  not!  I  have 
suffered  terribly — oh,  how  I  have  suffered! — bat  I  must  be 
firm  to  the  end." 

Her  low  voice  is  choked  with  grief.  Mr.  Mildmay 
draws  nearev  to  her.  Since  first  he  saw  her — lying  insen- 
sible— his  determination  to  keep  ar.d  comfort  her  hW 
been  a  strong  one;  now,  he  tells  himself,  no  earthly  con- 
sideration shall  turn  him  from  that  first  hastily  but  hon- 
orably formed  resolve.  But  some  ground  to  commence  on 
must  be  formed. 

"  Have  you  a  father — a  brother?"  he  asks  delicately. 
Even  to  himself  he  can  not  explain  the  almost  passionate 
interest  he  feels  in  the  history  of  this  little  outcast  whom 
the  world  has  flung  upon  his  hands.  The  waves  of  life 
have  stranded  her  upon  his  threshold;  shall  he  not  there- 
fore succor  her? 

"  My  mother  is  dead;  I  do  not  know  if  I  have  a  father, " 
replies  she  sadly.  It  is  an  intense  comfort  to  her  to  be 
able  to  answer  him  so  far.  To  have  a  refusal  forever  on 
her  lips  for  this  kind  friend  would  be  specially  painful. 

"You  have  a  guardian?"  he  goes  on,  still  very  gently, 
asking  his  question  in  a  tone  meant  to  assure  her  that  he 
will  not  be  offended  should  she  decline  to  answer. 

"  Yes,"  says  Dolores,  lingeringly,  thinking  of  the  tender 
gracious  woman  at  home  whose  love  had  created  the  sun- 
shine of  her  life  since  first  her  eyes  opened  on  the  world 
and   she   knew  the  difference   between   night  and  day 
Heaven  grant  that  now  she  deems  her  dead. 

"Has  he  been  kind  to  you?    Do  you  love  him?" 

"It  is  a  woman,"  says  Dolores  simply,  "  and  I  do  love 
her  with  all  my  heart!" 

"Why,  that  is  well!"  exclaims  the  old  man  cheerfully. 
"  Love  is  a  great  brightener  of  life's  troubles.  And  now 
tell  me — if  love  be  in  your  heart  for  her,  it  must  be  there 
for  others  also — I  would  fain  see  hope  for  you  in  the 
future — and  there  are  other  friends,  are  there  not?  You 
love  some  one  else  besides  your  guardian?" 

He  stops  abruptly,  startled  by  the  sudden  change  in  the 
girl's  face.  All  at  once,  in  a  flash,  as  it  were,  there  comes 

•  >»     <-*J      -^-*~  — 


274  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

to  her  a  strange,  a  most  vivid  vision  of  Dick,  as  he  stooJ 
before  her  in  the  moonlit  corridor,  on  that  last  memor- 
able occasion  when  their  parting  was  so  nigh — during  that 
last  sad  interview  which  he  had  so  little  known  to  be  their 
last.  Again  his  eyes,  so  full  of  love  and  hope,  gaze  fondly 
into  hers;  again  her  hand  grows  warm  within  his  grasp; 
and  once — once  more  her  heart  throbs  wildly  against  his. 

The  blood  recedes  from  her  brow,  her  heart  grows  chill; 
but  the  vision  still  is  there.  Smiling,  as  though  in  the 
flesh,  Bouverie  stand?  before  her,  tall  and  eager,  with  the 
old  glad  light  within  his  eyes — now — now  when  she  is 
lying  here  so  far  from  him,  weak  and  lonely! 

She  tries  desperately  to  conquer  the  illusion,  but  her 
strength  is  insufficient  for  her.  The  room  in  which  she 
lies,  Mr.  Mildmay,  all  fade  from  her,  and  again  she  is 
walking  up  that  pale  corridor  with  her  true  love  awaiting 
her  in  the  light  of  the  moon's  rays.  He  is  clad  in  that 
gray  suit  which  she  had  told  him  then  would  be  forever 
allied  to  her  memory  of  him  in  the  future.  How  lightly 
at  that  last  moment  he  had  treated  those  words  of  hers; 
but  now — does  he  remember  them  now? 

He  had  laughed,  she  recollects,  but  had  made  no  excuse 
for  appearing  before  her  at  that  late  hour  in  morning- 
dress.  But  she  had  understood  it  all;  she  knew  that  his 
love  for  her  had  prevented  his  re-entering  his  mother's 
doors  that  day.  He  had  not  dined  beneath  her  roof.  He 
had  taken  it  in  very  bad  part,  the  cruel  telling  of  the 
cruel  truth  to  his  best  beloved. 

Yes,  yes,  she  was  his  "best  beloved."  Be  life  from 
this  day  forth  the  worst  thing  possible,  she  has  at  least 
the  blessed  certainty  that  once  she  was  to  him  the  dearest 
thing  on  earth!  He  loved  her,  and  she  loved  him — ay, 
will  ever  love  him,  even  to  the  sacrificing  for  him  all  hope 
and  peace  and  joy.  Oh,  darling,  darling! 

A  little  heartbroken  cry  bursts  from  her,  and,  with  the 
sound  of  her  voice  comes  the  dissolution  of  her  sad 
vision.  Bouverie  fades  away  from  her;  her  mad  dream 
diet.  She  is  no  longer  with  her  lover,  but  only  lying 
here,  faint,  ill,  despairing,  crushed  in  soul  and  body, 
lowered  to  the  very  verge  of  the  grave — but,  alas,  alas, 
Hot  dying! 

She  raises  her  eyes  to  Mr.  Mildmay. 

'*Yes,   it  is  true,"  she  sayi,  with  a  painful  effort. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  J7I 

"there  i« — another — whom  I  love!"  And  then  suddenly 
she  breaks  into  bitker  weeping,  and  turns  her  face  to  the 
wall." 

Tears  rise  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Mild  may.  He  lays  hia 
hand  tenderly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Poor  child,  poor  child!  And  is  it  so?"  he  says. 
"  But  take  comfort.  There  may  be  hope  somewhere. 
That  his  love  and  yours  are  mutual  I  feel  sure.  And, 
perhaps,  whatever  difficulties  be  in  the  way  now,  in  time 
you  will  be  again  united." 

"  No,"  says  Dolores  with  a  passionate  shudder,  "  not 
now,  or  in  the  future,  or  ever!" 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

"  So  like,  so  like — the  resemblance  is  terrible!"  mut- 
ters Mr.  Mildmay,  as  he  paces  up  and  down  his  study  in 
a  nervous  abstraction.  His  hands  are  clasped  behind  his 
back,  his  head  is  bowed.  The  belief  that  he  is  alone  is 
gently  broken  in  upon. 

"Yes,  she  is  strangely  like,"  says  Mrs.  Edgeworth, 
thoughtfully. 

He  starts  and  rouses  himself  from  his  reverie. 

"Ah,  you  here,  Edgeworth?"  he  says,  with  a  sigh. 
"I  imagined  myself  as  alone  in  body  as  I  ever  am  in 
spirit.  And  so  you,  too,  have  noticed  this  marvelous 
likeness?" 

"Ay,  sir.  Who,  having  once  seen  her  face,  could  fail 
to  have  noticed  a  resemblance  to  it.  They  are  the  same 
eyes,  the  same  lips,  and  the  hair  has  the  same  little  touch 
of  gold  in  it,  though  hers  would  reach  down  far  below 
her  waist  in  its  straight,  sweet  folds.  You  will  "emem- 
ber-it?" 

"  What  smallest  thing  do  I  forget?"  He  runs  his  hand 
across  his  forehead,  and  draws  his  breath  heavily.  Evi- 
dently memory  contains  no  charms  for  him.  "How  is 
our  invalid  to-day?"  he  asked,  abruptly.  "I  thought 
when  last  I  saw  her  she  looked  flushed,  excited — eh?" 

"  She  was  thinking  of  her  old  life  perhaps.  The  re- 
membrance of  it  worries  her  at  times,  I  can  see;  yet  she 
won't  speak  of  it.  She  holds  her  secret  fast,  whatever  14 
may  be — go  fast  that  one  might  well  wonder  at  the  power 


276  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

that  lies  in  that  slight  little  frame  of  hers.  But  that 
there  should  be  anything  wrong  connected  with  such  an 
innocent  as  that  lamb  upstairs — no,  never!"  says  Mrs. 
Edgeworth,  with  startling  vehemence.  "I  won't  believe 
it." 

"  Wron£,  wrong!"  repeats  her  master  obtusely.  The 
meaning  of  her  words  fails  to  come  home  to  him.  He 
sinks  into  a  chair.  "  Wrong!"  he  says  again;  and  then 
all  at  once  he  comprehends  and  knows  that  his  worthy 
housekeeper  is  defending  the  character  of  the  poor  child 
above.  This  defense  somehow  rouses  great  wrath  within 
him.  "  It  is  only  a  wicked  mind,"  he  declares,  with 
much  agitation,  "  that  could  connect  even  the  idea  of 
wickedness  with  a  face  such  as  hers." 

"  And  indeed  that  is  my  own  thought  too,  sir,"  says 
the  housekeeper,  gently.  "  But  we  must  needs  think, 
for  all  that,  if  only  for  her  own  sake,  poor  young  lady. 
That  she  has  fled  from  her  home  is  certain.  But  why  she 
fled  is  not  so  clear.  Belike  they  had  tried  to  force  her 
into  a  marriage  with  one  whom  she  could  not  love."  Mrs. 
Edgeworth,  who  is  well  up  in  the  "penny  dreadfuls," 
says  this  feelingly.  "  I  have  heard  of  such  things  my- 
self," she  concludes,  with  dignity,  and  a  good  deal  of  sen- 
timentality. 

"  It  may  be — it  may  be  indeed,  poor  child!"  says  Mr. 
Mildmay,  sorrowfully,  thinking  of  that  great  outburst  of 
grief  on  Dolores'  part  a  few  days  ago,  when  he  had  but 
lightly  touched  upon  the  subject  of  love  generally.  What, 
if  loving  one  man,  she  had  been  coerced  and  driven  to- 
ward marriage  with  another,  until  only  flight  seemed 
possible  to  her  as  a  means  of  escape? 

"Her  spirits  are  dreadful  low,"  says  Mrs.  Edgeworth, 
tapping  the  table  with  her  forefinger — "  dreadful !  I  can't 
bear  to  see  her  like  that.  'Tis  true  we  know  nothing  of 
her;  but  still  my  heart  goes  out  to  her  because  of  that 
strange  look  of  hers,  and  because  too  it  is  a  lonely  place, 
sir,  and  a  young  lady — anything  young  makes  such  life  in 
the  house."  She  glances  furtively  at  her  master,  as  though 
to  see  what  he  thinks  of  her  last  words;  then  she  goes  on. 
"When  she  leaves  us,  we  shall  learn  her  loss,"  she  says, 
in  a  low  tone.  He  has  seemed  so  silent,  so  unsympathetic 
up  to  this  that  she  ia  losing  heart,  and  a  strong  affection 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  277 

for  the  lonely  child  whom  fate  has  flung  to  her  has  grown 
up  within  her  heart. 

"Leaves  us!  That  shall  never  be!  She  told  me  she 
had  now  no  home.  Why  should  she  go?"  says  Mr.  Mild- 
may,  waking  into  more  eager  life  than  she  has  seen  in  him 
for  years — never  indeed  since  that  far-off  sad  event  that 
had  left  his  house  desolate  unto  him. 

"Her  mind  is  made  up  to  it  then,"  she  says,  grimly. 
"  Only  an  hour  agone  she  was  discussing  with  me  the  chance 
of  getting  her  living  in  some  large  town." 

"  Her  living!  Her  death  rather!"  exclaims  Mr.  Mild- 
may,  strangely  agitated.  "She  can  not  go — she  shall 
not!  What!  Expose  one  so  young,  so  gentle,  to  the 
temptations,  the  miseries  of  poverty!  It  shall  not  be,  I 
tell  you'."  insists  he,  turning  upon  his  faithful  servant,  as 
though  she  too  were  in  league  against  him.  "  The  world 
is  a  horrible  place;  she  is  not  fit  to  battle  with  it." 

"I  said  all  that  to  her,"  says  Mrs.  Edgevvorth,  earnest- 
ly. "As  far  as  I  might,  without  having  the  word  from 
your  own  lips,  I  told  her  there  was  no  great  hurry  about 
her  leaving  this  house,  that  you  would  make  her  gladly 
welcome;  yet  go,  she  says,  she  will!" 

"  She  is  a  wayward  child,"  returns  her  master,  im- 
patiently; "  she  must  be  reasoned  with.  A  little  girl  of 
her  age  should  have  no  determinations;  one  commanding 
word  from  her  elders  should  be  sufficient  to  reduce  her  to 
obedience." 

The  utter  absurdity  of  this  remark,  as  coming  from 
Mr.  Mildmay's  lips,  is  patent.  The  boldness  of  his  at- 
tempt to  look  stern  strikes  even  the  housekeeper,  as  she 
looks  upon  his  gentle  yielding  face  and  his  nervous 
trembling  fingers. 

"  I  think  with  you.  sir — I  quite  think  so,"  she  says  de- 
murely, tapping  the  table  again  with  her  bony  knuckles. 
"  But  who  is  to  say  the  commanding  words?  Will  you?" 

"I?  Oh,  no — oh,  dear,  no!  It  will  come  mucn  bet- 
ter from  you — a  woman,"  declares  he  falteringly. 

"I  have  spoken,  sir,  and  failed." 

"  Well,  if  I  must  exercise  my  authority,  I  will,"  sayg 
Mr.  Midmay,  in  a  rather  quaking  tone.  "  Tut — tut! 
Surely  she  owes  me  something?  I  am  her  guardian,  in  a 
fashion,  appointed  by  Fate  herself.  I  shall  therefore 
forbid  her — not  too  sternly,  you  understand,  Edgewortk 


278  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

. — I  hare  read  that  tyranny  always  defeats  its  own  par. 
pose — but  I  shall  certainly  give  her  firmly  to  know  that 
she  shall  not  leave  tny  house  unless  it  be  to  return  to  her 
friends  and  equals." 

"  You  will  know  wh.it  to  say  to  her,  sir,"  says  Mrs. 
Edgeworth  admiringly,  who  really,  after  all  these  years, 
half  believes  in  him.  "  And  when  will  you  speak  to  her, 
air — now?" 

"Now?  My  good  Edgeworth,  surely  there  is  no  such 
great  haste?" 

"I  think  the  sooner  the  better,  sir.  She  seems  quite 
bent  on  leaving  us  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.'1 

"  But  why?  She  has  been  very  content  here  apparent- 
ly for  three  weeks — nearly  four.  Why — why,"  says  Mr. 
Mildmay,  looking  at  his  housekeeper  and  speaking  in  a 
low  confidential  tone,  as  if  half  afraid  of  the  step  he  is 
about  to  take — "  why  should  she  not  stay — always?" 

"  Ah,  why  not  indeed — " 

"  We  can  keep  her!" 

"  If  she  will  be  kept.  Go  to  her,  sir — go  to  her!  She 
will  listen  to  you,  I  hope,  I  believe.  Already  her  young 
heart  has  warmed  to  you,  as  though  you  were  he'r  own 
father." 

"  Ah,  Edgeworth,"  says  the  old  man,  regarding  her 
mournfully,  "  had  Heaven  been  merciful,  just  such  a  one 
as  she  might  have  had  her  home  within  my  heart  today!" 

"Perhaps  now,  even  late  as  it,  Heaven  has  sent  you  a 
substitute  in  that  pretty  child  upstairs,"  says  Mrs.  Edge- 
worth  tearfully.  "  Ah,  dear  sir,  go  to  her,  and  persuade 
her  to  remain!  It  will  be  terrible  if  she  leaves  us  now!" 
Here  the  good  woman  throws  her  apron  over  her  head  and 

breaks  into  loud  and  healthy  sobs. 

******* 

Sitting  in  Dolores'  room — the  pretty  morning-room  that 
has  now  been  allotted  to  her  since  the  doctor  gave  her 
permission  to  move  from  one  chamber  to  another — Mr. 
Mildmay  seeks  vainly  for  a  successful  method  of  com- 
mencing his  mission.  The  "  word  of  command  "  is  still 
far  from  him;  the  stern  power  that  is  to  reduce  her  to 
obedience  is  deplorably  wanting.  The  haughty  guardian 
"  appointed  by  Fate  "  ii  in  a  low  and  depressed  state  of 
mind. 

For  quite  three  minutes  he  has  been  absolutely  silent, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  971 

A  weak  endeavor  to  produce  a  speech  that  will  at  least 
introduce  his  subject  is  rendering  him  dumb.  Dolores* 
•oft  low  voice,  breaking  in  upon  his  distressing  reverie,  is 
welcomed  by  him  as  a  blessed  relief. 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  torments  me,"  says  the  girl, 
almost  solemnly;  "  it  is  that  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  think 
I  understand  how  good  you  have  been  to  me." 

"Good?  Tut — tutl  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  returns  he, 
in  his  nervous  fashion. 

He  takes  off  and  puts  on  his  spectacles  several  times 
after  saying  this,  and,  finally  rising  to  his  feet,  goes  over 
to  the  window. 

"To  take  in  one  of  whom  you  knew  nothing,  to  tend 
her  so  lovingly!  Through  a  dream,  as  it  were,  it  all 
comes  back  to  me  now,"  says  Dolores.  "I  remember 
little  things,  tender  acts,  gentle  glances.  Ah,"  she  draws 
a  long  breath — "  indeed  I  am  not  ungrateful!"  She  looks 
at  him  with  dewy  eyes.  "  In  all  the  long  future  that  I 
fear  lies  before  me — you  see  even  this  fear  has  not  killed 
me — I  shall  bear  a  lasting  memory  of  you." 

"  But,  my  child,  besides  this  future  of  which  you  speak 
so  sadly,  you  have  a  past,"  remarks  Mr.  Mildmay,  gently; 
"and  in  that  past  lie  friends;  you  told  me  the  other  day 
of  two  at  least." 

"  Yes — two  only,"  says  Dolores,  dreamily.  All  the 
rest  of  the  world  has  vanished  from  her,  leaving  only  the 
vivid  realization  of  her  lover,  and  of  her  who  had  been  to 
her  almost  more  than  a  mother. 

"  And  they — "  He  pauses.  "  Forgive  me,  my  dear, 
if  I  hurt  you,"  he  goes  on,  presently,  "  but  they  may  mis- 
take your  silence;  they  are  ignorant  of  your  illness;  they 
may  perhaps —  Consider,  consider,  my  child,"  says  he, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  nervous  eagerness,  "  how  unhappy 
they  must  be!" 

"  Oh,  don't!"  cries  the  girl,  vehemently. 

She  buries  her  face  in  the  cushions,  and  a  wave  of  pas- 
sionate terrifying  grief  sweeps  over  her.  This  is  the 
thought  that  has  been  rendering  her  wretched  night  and 
day  since  consciousness  returned;  yet  she  will  not  undo 
her  work.  Three  weeks — an  eternity  when  one  is  in  sus- 
pense— have  gone  by  since  she  left  her  home.  But  for 
this  luckless  illness  she  would  indeed  have  written  some 
small  trembling  line*  when  she  was  nafe  from  pursuit,  to 


380  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

tell  them  of  her  being  still  alive;  but  now — how  is  it  with 
them  now?  Do  they  deem  her  bad,  ungrateful,  unloving, 
or  only  dead? 

Ah!  A  sudden  spasm  seems  to  contract  her  heart  and 
draws  all  the  blood  from  her  face.  Why  if  they  believe 
her  dead,  there  need  be  no  more  sorrow,  no  more  shame 
for  them;  they  will  let  all  that  sink  with  her  into  her  sup- 
posed grave.  But  to  be  quite  forgotten,  to  be  thrust  alto- 
gether out  of  mind,  to  be  perchance  in  time  supplantedl 
A  bitter  sob  breaks  from  her. 

"  You  are  grieving,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay,  anxiotisly; 
"  my  careless  words  have  brought  back  sad  scenes  to  your 
mind;  but,  though,  perhaps  those  with  whom  you  lived 
seemed  at  one  time  harsh" — that  suggestion  of  Mrs. 
Edgeworth's  about  her  being  forced  into  a  hated  alliance 
is  now  strongly  before  him — "  still  they — " 

"No,  no!"  interrupts  Dolores,  eagerly.  By  an  impul- 
sive gesture  she  stops  him  and  turns  to  him  a  pallid,  a 
most  hopeless  face.  "They  were  not  unkind,"  she  says, 
with  a  curious  energy;  "  believe  that;  there  was  nothing 
but  love — always  love!" 

She  brings  her  hands  together  with  a  touch  of  uncon- 
trollable agony,  and  moves  so  that  her  face  can  be  no 
longer  seen. 

"Yet  you  left  them?"  suggests  Mr.  Mildmay,  with 
ever  increasing  gentleness. 

•'  For  their  sakes!  Believe  that  too!"  entreats  the  poor 
child,  in  a  smothered  tone.  "  To  save  them  further  pain, 
I  left  my  home.  They  had  endured  too  much  already,  yet 
they  could  have  endured  more,  so  I  left  them." 

"You  will  return?" 

"  Never!"  says  Dolores  quietly;  but  her  soft  low  tone 
is  so  full  of  a  strange  heart-broken  resolution  that  her 
host  looks  at  her  keenly.  "  I  have  of  my  own  free  will 
abandoned  my  people,"  she  goes  on,  "and  now  that  time 
has  grown  into  weeks,  no  doubt  they  think  me  dead/' 
Her  voice  falters  and  dies  away.  "If  so,  it  is  well  with 
them,"  she  whispers,  making  a  last  expiring  effort  at 
composure. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay,  taking  one 
of  her  little  pale  bloodless  hands  and  stroking  it  tenderly. 
"  They  must  be  sad  for  you;  their  hearts  must  be  borne 
down  with  grief.  If  you_  had  been  my  daughter,  if  I  had 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  tSl 

lost  you,  how  I  should  have  suffered!  I  had  a  little 
daughter  once,"  continued  he  simply,  "  but  death  bore 
her  from  me.  So  young  she  was,  I  had  never  even  seen 
her!  My  grief  for  her — that  unknown  babe — was  great; 
how  much  greater  then  must  be  theirs  who  have  lost  you 
— a  child  grown,  a  creature  loving  and  to  be  loved?" 

"It  is  all  over,"  declares  Dolores  despairingly;  " I  can 
not  go  back.  As  I  have  told  you,  of  my  own  doing  I  de- 
serted them  for  their  good — oh,  do  remember  that — and 
therefore  I  have  no  longer  a  home." 

Mr.  Mildmay  makes  a  slight  movement. 

"  You  have,"  he  says  gravely.  "  If  you  will  accept  it, 
this  can  be  your  home." 

Dolores,  pale  and  bewildered,  regards  him  anxiously. 

"  Here?"  she  murmurs. 

"Yes;  it  is  a  dull  place,"  says  the  old  man  gently, 
"  unfit  for  the  young,  no  doubt,  but  there  is  at  least  peace 
in  it  and  rest." 

"  Rest!"  Mechanically  she  repeats  the  word  after  him, 
lingering  over  it  as  though  comfort  lies  in  the  very  sound 
of  it. 

"  You  will  stay?" 

"  Ah,  if  I  only  might!"  says  Dolores,  a  delicate  flush 
dyeing  the  pale  face.  "  But  what  claim  have  I  upon 
you?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay,  gently. 

He  seats  himself  beside  her,  and,  again  taking  her  hand 
in  his,  regards  her  long  and  earnestly. 

"  You  wonder  at  my  sudden-grown  affection  for  you," 
he  says,  at  last.  "  It  is  natural  you  should,  not  knowing 
the  thoughts  of  long  ago  that  your  presence  has — not  so 
much  revived,  for  they  have  never  died — has  brought  out 
from  the  secret  recesses  of  my  heart  into  a  more  open 
prominence.  You  recall  to  me — you,  with  your  sunny 
hair  and  gentle  face — another  face  gentle  as  yours  that 
once  was — nay,  that  always  must  be  the  one  fond  remem- 
brance of  my  life!" 

He  grows  silent  a  while,  as  though  recollection,  if  sad, 
were  still  sweet  to  him. 

"  I  loved  her,"  he  goes  on,  presently.  "  To  all  who 
knew  her  indeed  she  was  inexpressibly  dear.  The  whol* 
of  the  world  bowed  in  homage  before  that  pure  soul.  And 
yon  resemble  herl  Your  eyes  art  as  hers;  such  gold  wat 


S82  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

in  her  hair-,  through  such  lips  as  yours  her  sweet  breath 
might  have  come  and  gone.  Now  it  is  gone  forever!" 

All  this  has  been  said  more  in  a  sort  of  reverie  than  as 
if  he  had  known  himself  to  be  holding  converse  with  the 
young  girl  who  is  watching  him  with  shining  eyes. 

"  Stay  with  me  !"  he  says,  at  last,  with  a  sudden  long- 
ing that  startles  her.  It  is  a  cry  wrung  from  his  heart. 
"I  will  be  a  father  to  you!"  exclaims  he.  "  Why  should 
you  seek  to  brave  the  world?  You  and  your  secret  will 
be  safe  here.  I  am  a  lonely  old  man  without  a  hope  in 
my  life.  Give  me  one!  Let  me  help  you,  comfort  you, 
protect  you,  do  for  you  all  that  a  father  might  do!  Look- 
ing upon  you,  I  seem  to  see  her  again,  rescued,  as  it  were, 
from  the  cruel  grave!"  He  checka  himself,  and,  stilling 
the  agitation  of  his  voice,  appeals  to  her  again  in  a  voice 
so  low  that  she  can  barely  follow  it.  "  You  see  how  I 
desire  your  presence,"  he  says.  "  Do  not  disappoint  me!" 

"  I  will  stay  with  you,"  said  Dolores,  softly. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  IT  is  a  most  disgraceful  affair  altogether,"  says  Mrs. 
Drummond,  in  a  shocked  tone,  drawing  up  her  head  and 
shaking  it  in  a  manner  replete  with  pious  horror. 

She  and  a  good  many  other  of  her  friends  are  assem- 
bled together  in  Mrs.  Wemyss'  drawing-room  on  this  par- 
ticular Thursday  of  hers. 

"  And  to  think  she  should  have  mixed  with  us!  Why, 
we  positively  entertained  her!"  adds  the  fair  Georgina,  in 
a  shrill  tone,  and  with  quite  a  little  shiver.  "  Oh,  if 
the  dear  Duchess  only  knew!" 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  her?"  says  Audrey  Ponsooby, 
from  her  seat  in  the  window.  She  is  very  pale,  and  she 
clinches  her  fingers  somewhat  tightly  as  she  speaks. 

"Poor  child!  What  a  pity  it  all  is!"  murmurs  Mrs. 
Wemyss  sadly. 

"Yes — yes,  indeed,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  who  has 
beard  only  the  vanishing  sounds  of  the  last  words,  and 
who  believes  Mrs.  Wemyss  to  be  on  her  side.  "  Yes, 
quite  so.  Poor  Lady  Bouverie  indeed!  How  pitiably 
she  has  been  taken  in!  But  who  could  cope  with  such — 
each  miscreants?  Why,  ghe  had  Dogitively  selected  that 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  283 

audacious  girl  for  her  daughter-in-law,  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  others!  Good  gracious,  if  such  a  thing  happened 
to  me,  I  should  never  be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again!" 
There  is  a  little  touch  of  apite  in  these  last  two  remarks. 
"  Poor  thing!"  she  goes  on.  "  I'm  sure  I  quite  feel  for 
her!" 

"I'm  sure  my  mother  would  be  intensely  gratified  if 
Bhe  could  only  know  that,"  says  Bruno  gravely. 

"  And  as  for  that  girl  Dolores — to  be  so  young,  yet  so 
depraved!  Really  the  knowledge  of  her  half  spoils  one's 
belief  in  all  truth  and  honesty,"  winds  up  Mrs.  Drummond 
severely. 

"Ah,  do  let  us  be  charitable!"  cries  little  Mrs.  Dove- 
dale,  clasping  her  small  hands  and  leaning  forward. 
"  She  is  indeed,  I  greatly  fear,  the  very  wickedest  person 
we  have  ever  known,  and  will  surely — if  she  does  not 
mend  her  ways— go  to  destruction;  but,  oh,  do  let  us  be 
charitable!  There  is  no  virtue  so  grand  as  charity — is 
there,  Mr.  Vyner?"  asks  she  mildly,  turning  up  to  him 
her  large  innocently  open  eyes. 

"Not  one!"  says  Vyner.  "  You  can  not  think  what  a 
solace  it  is  to  me  to  see  you  so  carefully  practicing  it!" 

"Ah,  yes,  yes;  charity  is  a  grand  thing!"  pipes  Sir 
Chicksy,  in  a  distressed  tone,  from  a  distant  corner — he 
had  liked  Dolores  in  his  own  small  fashion,  and  is  honestly 
grieved  to  hear  her  thus  maligned.  "  It  clothes  the  mul- 
titude." 

This  extremely  rare  and  unique  rendering  of  St.  Peter's 
greatest  truth  is  received  by  everybody  with  a  silent  amaze- 
ment. By  Mr.  Vyner  indeed  it  is  treated  with  an  undis- 
guised admiration. 

"  For  warm  weather  it  would  be  admirable- — so  cheap,  so 
comfortable,  so  delightfully  simple,"  he  is  beginning, 
with  a  beaming  smile,  when  he  is  cut  short  by  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond. 

"Some  sins  should  not  be  covered,"  protests  that 
matron,  in  a  commanding  tone,  having  conquered  Sir 
Chicksy's  meaning — "though  I  both  honor  and  esteem 
you,  my  dear  Sir  Chicksy,  for  your  innocent  desire  to  hide 
the  shortcomings  of  that  most  pernicious  girl." 

"Pernicious!  Oh,  come,  I  say,  you  knowl"  murmurs 
Sir  Chicksy  vaguely. 

"  How  energetic  one  can  be  even  on  a  warm  day,  when 


284  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

there  is  an  absent  friend  to  be  abused!"  says  Audrey,  rais- 
ing her  brows  superciliously,  and  addressing  herself  to  Mrs. 
Dovedale,  who  happens  to  be  nearest  to  her.  To-day  there 
is  full  upon  her  the  only  half-veiled  insolence  that  has 
rendered  her  so  unpopular  with  her  gossiping  neighbors. 

"  You  see  this  terrible  scandal  that  has  fallen  into  our 
midst  has  naturally  excited  the  public  a  good  deal,"  says 
Mrs.  Dovedale.  "That  unhappy  girl!  How  I  wish  we 
could  wake  some  morning  and  find  all  this  miserable  story 
of  hers  but  a  troubled  dream!" 

She  sighs — very  well  indeed — and  glances  at  Audrey  in 
a  sorrowful  reluctant  way  through  flickering  barely  lifted 
lashes. 

"  Do  you?"  says  Audrey  with  an  undisguised  sneer. 

"  Yes,  dear!  So  melancholy  to  think  we  should  have 
welcomed  her  amongst  us  and  shown  her  every  kindness, 
and  entertained  her,  and,  in  fact — though  unconsciously, 
be  it  said  to  our  credit — assisted  her  designs  in  every 
way!" 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  entertained  us  more  than  we 
did  her,"  says  Audrey,  whose  large  dark  eyes  are  now  afire. 
"  We  partook  very  freely  of  her  hospitality,  so  far  as  I 
can  remember,  and  made  very  much  of  her." 

She  stares  coldly  at  Mrs.  Dovedale,  knowing  her 
never  to  have  asked  Dolores,  or  indeed  anyone  else,  inside 
her  doors  in  her  life.  "  The  dear  rector  so  objects  to 
frivolity  of  any  sort,  even  of  the  most  harmless  kind" — 
et- cater  a. 

"Ah,  perhaps  so,"  she  says,  now  coloring  faintly. 
"  That  idea  is  even  more  objectionable  than  mine.  To 
think  she  should  have  entertained  us,  and  that  we  have 
been  harboring  an  adventuress  all  this  time!  " 

"That  word  could  never  apply  to  Dolores,"  says  Audrey, 
flushing  passionately.  "  To  any  one  so  pure,  so  sweet  as 
she,  such  an  epithet  is  merely  a  meaningless  insult.  You 
should  consider  the  exact  signification  of  your  words  before 
using  them." 

"  Yes?  Is  then  the  word  wrong?  "  asks  Mrs.  Dovedale, 
with  mild  interrogation. 

"Is  it  not?"  insists  Audrey,  paling.  "Adventuress! 
Think  of  it!" 

"  I  am  thinking;  and  I  now  see  I  did  not  mean  it  in 
its  widest  sense,"  savs  Mrs.  Dovedale,  with  a  little  ex- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  285 

postulatory  movement  of  her  haods.  *'In  that  class  there 
are  so  many  grades — " 

"  Are  there?  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about 
'  that  class,'  as  you  call  it — far  more  than  I  do! "  says 
Audrey  contemptuously.  "Tell  us  about  it."  By  an 
indescribable  gesture  she  includes  Vyiier  in  the  "  us,"  and 
a  pale  smile  crosses  her  lips, 

Mrs.  Doved  ale's  eyes  flash;  but  she  still  manages  to 
maintain  her  coolness  and  the  little  pretty  surprised  look 
she  has  sustained  all  through. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  as  clever  as  you  give  me  credit  for," 
she  says  sweetly,  fixing  Audrey  with  a  direct  gaze;  "  I 
merely  spoke  of  her  as  being  one  of  those  who  seek  to 
entrap  rich  young  men  into  a  marriage  unawares,  because 
of  their  money  and  position." 

As  if  unconsciously,  her  eyes  now  turn  and  fall  first 
upon  Sir  Chicksy  Chaucer,  who  is  nursing  his  leg  in  the 
distance  in  a  sort  of  deadly  stupor,  and  then  upon  Mr. 
Vyner,  who  is  close  to  her;  finally  they  wander  back  again 
to  Audrey,  where  they  rest  calmly,  searchingly.  Has  her 
shaft  told? 

However  Audrey  may  feel,  it  is  at  all  events  unknown 
to  any  one  save  herself;  she  controls  herself  perfectly,  and 
returns  Mrs.  Dovedale's  impertinently  concentrated"  gaze 
with  a  careless  ease  that  somewhat  puts  out  that  accom- 
plished little  gossip. 

'*  Being  ignorant  then  of  the  story  now  so  unhappily 
attached  to  her,  and  being  beyond  all  doubt  heiress  to  a 
large  fortune,  it  is  quite  impossible  Miss  Lome  should  be 
accused  of  seeking  to  entrap  any  man,"  she  says  slowly. 

''Miss — "  Mrs.  Dovedale  looks  quite  at  a  loss,  and 
regards  Audrey  with  a  puzzled  air.  Then,  as  though  all 
at  once  suddenly  enlightened,  she  lets  a  glance  of  dawning 
knowledge  spread  over  her  face.  "Ah,  yes,  of  course!" 
she  says.  "  Forgive  me  my  stupidity;  but,  do  you  know, 
I  have  grown  so  accustomed  to  think  of  that  poor  girl  as 
possessing  no  name — that — er — positively  for  the  moment 
I  didn't  understand  to  whom  you  were  alluding.  No  Name 
— you  remember  that  charming  novel  by  Wilkie  Collins 
which  bore  that  title?  Pretty  book — eh?"  She  has  sud- 
denly fallen  back  into  the  ordinary  light  conversational 
tone,  as  though  already  the  sad  subject  in  hand  had  slid, 
from  her.  being  of  no  oonseauence  whatsoever. 


886  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Audrey  turns  upon  her.  Angry  tears  are  rendering  her 
/arge  eyes  larger. 

"  Oh,  you  cruel  woman!"  she  says,  in  a  low  tone  full  of 
condensed  bitterness. 

It  is  so  low  from  emotion  as  to  be  almost  inaudible, 
and  Mrs.  Dovedale  very  wisely  declines  to  take  notice  of  it. 

"H'm!"  she  murmurs  prettily,  as  if  anxious  to  catch 
her  words,  and  feigning  a  convenient  deafness.  "  Cruel? 
Ah,  yes,  the  whole  thing  is  cruel!  But," — with  seeming 
nervousness — "  I  am  afraid  I  have  really  hurt  you.  I  had 
no  idea  she  was  such  a  friend  of  yours;  and — and  was  it 
really  so  very  wrong  of  me  " — glancing  up  at  Vyner,  who 
has  been  an  emotionless  observer  of  the  scene,  with  a  care- 
ful artlessness — "to  speak  before  Miss  Ponsonby  of  de- 
signing women  who  seek  to  induce  rich  young  men  to 
marry  them?" 

"What  a  little  cat  she  is!"  says  Vyner  to  himself,  re- 
garding her  from  under  his  half- opened  lids;  but  he 
makes  her  no  reply. 

"  It  hurts  me  always,"  answers  Audrey  calmly,  "  to 
hear  a  friend  maligned,  more  especially  one  BO  perfect  in 
soul  and  body  as  Dolores." 

"Yes;  I  felt  I  had  hurt  you,"  says  little  Mrs.  Dove- 
dale  mournfully;  "but  really  I  meant  nothing.  What- 
ever I  may  think,  I  am  always  most  careful  to  say  nothing 
prejudicial;  and,  after  all,  the  world  is  full  of  women 
such  as  I  have  described.  Is  it  not,  Mr.  Vyner?" 

She  turns  to  Vyner  pathetically,  as  though  imploring 
his  assistance  to  get  her  out  of  an  innocent  scrape. 

Such  studied  insolence  as  this  is  hard  to  bear,  harder 
jo  resent.  Audrey  rises  slowly  to  her  feet,  and,  moving 
aer  head  slightly,  for  the  first  time  to-day  fixes  her  eyes 
on  Vyner.  But  apparently  he  does  not  see  her;  his 
glance  is  directed  to  Mrs.  Dovedale. 

"  Is  it?"  he  says  lightly,  in  answer  to  her  question. 
t:  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  shouldn't  dream  of  contradict- 
ing you,  however,  as  your  knowledge  of  the  world  seems 
to  be  vast.  Permit  me  to  compliment  you  on  it;  for 
myself,  I  am  hopelessly  ignorant!"  He  raises  ttis  shoul- 
der deprecatingly,  and  brushes  down  his  mustache  with 
one  hand.  He  has  never  once  removed  his  eyes  from  Mrs. 
Dovedale's.  "Shall  I  sink  very  much  in  your  esteem," 
he  asks  pleasantly,  "  if  I  confess  to  you  that  a  young 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

woman  such  as  you  have  described  so  graphically  has  never 
yet  come  beneath  my  observation?" 

Audrey,  as  he  ceases  speaking,  moves  away  slowly  to 
where  Mrs.  Wemyss  is  sitting,  at  the  further  end  of  the 
room.  In  going  she  gives  Vyner  neither  word  nor  glance. 

"Now  that  was  very  good  of  you,"  says  Mrs.  Dovedale, 
when  she  is  out  of  hearing,  smiling  up  confidently  at 
Vyner. 

"  Was  it?"  says  Vyner.  "It  is  an  unspeakable  joy  to 
me,  Mrs.  Dovedale,  to  know  that  I  have  found  favor  in 
your  sight;  but  where  does  my  goodness  lie?" 

"  You  are  modest!  But  if  I  must  explain,  why,  it  lief, 
then,  in  your  defense  of — " 

Her  pause  is  full  of  eloquence,  and  conveys  to  him  her 
real  meaning  as  nearly  as  though  she  had  spoken. 

"  Well?"  demands  he,  coldly. 

"  Of  all  our  sex,"  finishes  she,  prettily,  with  a  coquettish 
smile.  "  You  have  released  us  from  the  imputation  of 
being  intriguantes  I " 

"  Which  you  were  the  one  to  make." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  am  indeed  too  candid!"  returns  she,  with  a 
little  sad  smile.  "It  is  one  of  my  faults.  What  I  think 
and  feel  to  be  true,  that  I  must  say  at  all  risks." 

"An  unpleasing  propensity,"  returns  Vyner,  slowly; 
and,  straightening  himself  from  his  lounging  position,  he 
steps  past  her  and  crosses  the  room. 

Thus  he  brings  himself  into  the  full  storm  of  the  con- 
troversy that  still  rages  within. 

"  And,  as  to  her  having  run  away  from  home,"  Mrs. 
Drummond  is  saying,  excitedly,  "  why,  the  idea  is  absurd! 
It  is  a  mere  canard  set  floating  to  deceive  the  world  and 
to  raise  sympathy.  For  my  part,  I  decline  to  be  so  easily 
deceived.  She  may  have  run  indeed;  but  it  is  with  the 
full  knowledge  of  that  arch -conspirator,  Miss  Maturin, 
who  really  should  be  punished  by  law  for  imposing  such 
an  acquaintanceship  upon  us.  Beyond  doubt  she  was 
cognizant  of  the  whole  affair,  and  thought  it  wiser  to  get 
the  girl  out  of  the  way  until  the  popular  and  most  right- 
eous indignation  of  the  neighborhood  should  calm  a 
little.  At  least,  that  is  my  opinion,"  winds  up  Mrs. 
Drummond,  with  all  the  air  of  one  who  tirmly  believes 
that  the  fact  of  lU  being,  her  opinion  settles  the  matter. 


288  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  A  wrong  opinion,"  says  Bruno  Bouverie,  courteously 
but  distinctly,  "and  certainly  not  mine." 

"  You  would  support  her  cause?"  exclaims  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  somewhat  shrilly.  "  She  seems  to  have  all  the  men 
on  her  side,  at  all  events."  She  makes  an  attempt  at 
laughter  that  only  betrays  to  every  one  the  depth  of  her 
irritability. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  a  novel,"  breaks  in  her  daughter, 
with  a  little  vicious  simper;  "the  whole  thing  hangs  so 
well  together.  Each  move  fits  in  so  admirably  with  the 
others;  and  the  denouement  is  so  satisfactory — so  absolute- 
ly flawless.  First  we  have  the  adventuress,  then  her  pre- 
meditated crime,  then  the  unexpected  enemy  who  turns 
uj>  at  the  right  moment,  like  Colonel  Oswald,  from  no- 
body knows  where,  and  then,  at  the  very  last,  exposure, 
just  when  success  seemed  most  certain.  It  is  quite  a 
romance." 

"Dear  girl,  how  clever  she  is!  I  have  often  suggested 
to  her  to  write  for  "  Temple  Bar."  or  "  Macmillan,"  or — er 
— But  she  always  says  writing  is  so  low,"  says  tke  "dear 
girl's"  mother,  with  an  expansive  smile.  "Ah,  yes,  my 
dear  Georgina!  But,  though  your  description  of  it  sounds 
very  charming,  still  we  should  never  forget  that  there  is 
nothing  lovely  about  vice." 

"  Weil,  I  call  it  a  delightful  story!"  says  the  sprightful 
Georgina,  with  her  unvarying  smile.  "  Don't  you,  Mrs. 
Wemyss?" — turning  to  her  hostess  with  a  gushing  gayety 
that  sits  deliciousiy  upon  her  thirty  summers. 

"Delightful?  Well,  hardly!  It  is  a  little  cruel,  is  it 
not?  It  would  be  terrible  if  it  existed  in  the  realms  of 
reality,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  gently,  dropping  a  lump  of 
sugar  into  the  cup  held  out  to  her  by  Bruno. 

"  What!  You  can  see  cruelty  in  justice!"  cries  Mrs. 
Drummond,  turning  to  her  with  a  curious  trembling 
about  her  lips  which  denotes  extreme  indignation.  "  You 
would  shield  this  impostor?  Why,  where  is  your  moral- 
ity, my  dear  Mrs.  Wemyss?" 

"  Just  where  it  always  was,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  resting 
her  eyes  upon  her  whilst  smiling  quietly.  "And  now 
may  I  be  allowed  to  say  one  word  about  this  'delightful 
story'?" 

"  A  thousand  if  you  will,"  declares  Mrs.  Drummond 
effusively. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

•'-  Seven  will  do,"  returns  Mrs.  Wemyss  gently.  "I 
don't  believe  one  word  of  it." 

"  Bless  me!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Drummond,  falling  back  in 
her  seat  and  beginning  to  fan  herself  vigorously. 

"  Not  one  word,"  persists  Mrs.  Wemyss,  smiling,  but 
earnest.  "  I  think  you  will  find  that,  after  all,  it  is  one 
gigantic  mistake — the  whole  of  it.  I  have  no  real  reason 
lo  go  upon;  but  something  tells  me  that  anything  s® 
sweet  as  Dolores  must  have  had  an  irreproachable  be- 
ginning." 

Audrey,  who  is  close  to  her,  lets  her  hand  slip  from 
the  chair  by  which  she  is  standing  to  Mrs.  Wemyss' 
shoulder,  and  presses  it  gratefully.  Mrs.  Wemyss,  put- 
ting up  her  own  hand,  acknowledges  the  gentle  pressure 
by  entwining  her  fingers  in  those  or  Audrey.  At  this 
moment  a  common  love  for  the  absent  girl  unites  them  in 
a  lasting  bond  of  good-fellowship. 

"You  are  sanguine,"  says  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  an 
unpleasant  intonation  and  an  assumption  of  mirth  that 
is  a  trifle  hysterical. 

"  She  is  of  those  who  bear  no  false  witness  against  their 
neighbor,"  says  Bruno  gravelv 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  days  wear  on,  and  still  no  tidings  of  the  lost  girl 
come  to  Deadmarsh-by-the-Sea. 

To  Miss  Maturin,  wandering  idly,  purposelessly,  by 
lawn  and  flowered  place,  this  unbearable  suspense  is  a 
living  death.  To  Bouverie  alone  can  she  cry  her  sorrows 
aloud;  and  he  is  seldom  with  her  now,  being  ever  on  the 
move  between  Greylnnds  and  the  noisy  world  of  town, 
seeking  everywhere — and  ever  vainly — for  his  soul's  desire. 

Alone  then  she  treads  the  perfumed  paths  that  erst- 
while echoed  with  her  beloved's  laughter,  and,  strolling 
half  unconsciously  along  those  paths,  has  conjured  up  a 
thousand  times  the  sweet  words  and  sweeter  smiles  and 
most  dainty  caresses  of  her  who  was  her  all  in  all.  Who 
can  describe  the  unutterable  melancholy  of  such  hours  as 
these? 

Two  people  only  has  she  permitted  to  enter  upon  her 
solitude — Audrey  Ponsonby  and  Mrs.  Wemyss.  Both  had 
10  •*" 


290  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

been  beloved  by  her.  As  for  Audrey,  her  grief,  though 
almost  unexpressed,  has  been  excessive.  A  strange  but 
very  real  affection  for  Dolores  had  grown  with  her  increas- 
ing knowledge  of  the  now  unhappy  girl.  Ah,  if  she  could 
only  reinstate  her  in  her  former  position  and  lift  from  her 
the  tongue  of  calumny!  Her  pale  and  sorrowful  face  has 
touched  Miss  Maturin  and  opened  her  heart  to  her.  And 
day  by  day  Audrey  walks  up  to  Greylands  to  leari  if  in- 
deed there  be  any  hope  for  those  who  so  miserably  wait 
for  tidings  of  the  lost  one.  And  day  by  day  she  learns 
that  hope  is  nearly  dead. 

Just  now,  coming  up  the  valley  from  her  home  on  her 
accustomed  errand,  she  finds  herself  face  to  face  with 
Bouverie.  She  is  a  little  startled  by  the  change  in  him. 
He  has  grown  fitful  and  uncertain  in  temper;  and  this, 
joined  with  his  unceasing  grief,  has  rendered  him  emaci- 
ated in  appearance.  Time,  so  fraught  for  him  with  evil, 
has  told  upon  him  both  in  body  and  mind. 

Stopping  short  when  he  would  have  passed  her  with  a 
hurried  bow,  she  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  All  the  old 
enmity  has  died  away  from  her,  and  only  an  unspeakable 
pfty  remains. 

"Stay  with  me  a  little  while,  Dick,"  she  says  ever  so 
gently. 

"  Ah,  it  is  some  time  since  we  met,  isn't  it?"  he  says, 
making  a  heavy  effort  to  speak  with  his  ordinary  com- 
posure. 

"  Too  long  a  time.  There  are  now  so  many  things  I 
would  say  to  you,  but  can  not  in  an  interview  that  must 
be  short.  Where  are  you  going?  To  the  station?" 

"I  hardly  ever  go  anywhere  else  now,  do  I?"  returns 
he,  with  a  joyless  laugh.  "  I  am  becoming  quite  an  in- 
stitution on  the  platform,  a  sort  of  movable  advertisement 
about  the  excellence  of  the  company's  arrangements:  and, 
for  all  the  good  I  do" — with  a  quick  sigh — "  I  might  ai 
well  stay  at  home  to  eat  my  heart  out." 

"  No.     Action  is  in  itself  a  cure." 

"  Oh,  as  for  a  cure!"  says  he,  turning  away. 

There  is  something  so  forlorn  in  his  tone  and  the  little 
gesture  that  accompanies  it,  that  Audrey's  eyes  fill  with 
tears. 

"  Don't  go  yet,  Dick  I"  ghe  entreats  again.     "  There  i» 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  291 

plenty  of  time  to  catch  the  five  train  if  you  leave  this  half 
»n  hour  hence." 

"  Time!  Yes;  there  is  always  so  much  time  now,"  aayg 
he,  querulously,  "and  nothing  done."  With  an  impa- 
tient movement  he  pushes  back  the  hair  from  his  brow. 
"  What  is  to  be  the  end  of  it?"  he  says,  with  a  quick  little 
burst  of  despair. 

His  face  is  white,  his  eyes  are  haggard  and  blood-shot. 
He  seems  as  one  to  whom  sleep  has  long  been  a  stranger. 

"  A  little  more,  and  this  will  mean  brain-fever,"  says 
Audrey  to  herself,  regarding  him  thoughtfully. 

Again  she  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm  to  rouse  him, 
and  presses  it  slightly. 

"  Dick,"  she  says  softly,  tremulously,  "  I  want  to  say 
something  to  you.  You  may  have  thought  perhaps — at 
times — that  I  did  not  like  you.  You  are  your  mother's 
son,  you  know;  but  that  is  nothing  to  me  now — nothing 
— nothing!  I  loved  her — Dolores!  I,  who  never  before 
loted  any  woman,  let  all  my  heart  go  out  to  her.  After 
dad,  I  think  I  loved  her  best.  Oh,  the  sweet  little  man- 
ner of  her!"  She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  a 
tearless  sob  escapes  her. 

"  What  are  you  crying  about?"  asks  Bouverie,  with  sud- 
den roughness,  through  which  a  crushing  anguish  is  dis- 
cernible. "One  would  think  she  was  dead,  the  way  you 
speak!"  He  stops  short  and  a  gray  pallor  spreads  itself 
over  cheek  and  brow.  "  What  a  horrible  thought!"  he 
says,  faintly.  "  Who  gave  rise  to  it — you?"  He  moistens 
his  lips;  and  struggles  to  say  something  more,  but  speech 
dies  from  him. 

"If  I  did,"  says  Audrey,  "if  I  had  begun  at  last  to 
think  of  that  little  saint  as  being  in  Heaven,  who  shall 
blame  me?  Is  she  not  happier  there?  What  home  so 
meet  for  her?  She  is  dead,"  she  says,  solemnly.  "  I  feel 
it.  She  was  too  gentle  a  soul  to  bear  the  buffeting  of  a 
careless  world.  Yes  " — dreamily — "surely  she  is  dead." 

"  Be  silent!  "  exclaims  Bouverie  savagely.  "  How  dare 
you  speak  so  lightly  of  what  means  ruin  to  at  least  two 
people— Miss  Maturin — and  me?"  He  throws  up  his 
head  hurriedly.  "  She  is  all  I  have,"  he  says  slowly — 
"all-all!" 

"Nay,  Dick,  do  not  be  angry,"  says  she,  sobbing. 
"  Remember,  I  loved  her  too." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  I  remember,"  he  returns  more  quietly.  Then  he 
walks  away  from  her,  and,  as  she  makes  no  effort  to  stay 
him,  soon  disappears  behind  the  low  encircling  hills. 

Walking  ever  hurriedly  onward,  scarce  knowing  whither 
he  goes,  he  comes  at  last  to  a  large  patch  of  water,  deep, 
yet  scarcely  wide  enough  in  circumference  to  be  given  the 
title  of  a  lake.  Something  in  the  fascinating  stillness  of 
its  surface  attracts  him.  He  stops,  and  gazes  curiously 
down  upon  the  unfathomable  blackness  of  its  bosom. 

Here,  in  such  a  place  as  this,  she  might  have  sought  and 
found  her  death.  A  shudder  convulses  him.  She,  his 
pretty  love!  He  stoops  over  the  bank  and  peers  into  th« 
motionless  waters,  and  fancies  how  her  sweet  dead  face 
would  look  there  staring  up  at  him,  without  knowledge 
or  remembrance  of  that  strange  great  love  that  lay  be- 
tween them.  Poor  sweet  dead  face — almost  he  sees  it. 

"  Sweet  still,  but  now  not  red 
"Was  the  shut  mouth  whereby  men  lived  and  died; 
And  sweet,  but  emptied  of  the  blood's  blue  shade, 
The  great  curled  eyelids  that  withheld  her  eyes; 
And  sweet,  but  like  spoilt  gold, 
The  weight  of  color  in  her  tresses  weighed ; 
And  sweet,  but  as  a  vesture  with  new  dyes, 
The  body  that  was  clothed  with  love  of  old." 

A  cry  breaks  from  him.  Encircling  the  sapling  oak 
near  him  with  a  trembling  arm,  he  gives  himself  up  to 
saddest  thought.  His  eyes  are  riveted  upon  the  swaying 
water;  his  brain,  unsettled  by  his  lengthened  vigils,  hur- 
ries from  thought  to  thought,  having  for  the  ground- work 
of  its  imaginings  only  her — only  Dolores. 

Alas,  the  little  graceful  head,  with  its  bright  sunny 
curls,  its  soft  wind-tossed  locks,  shall  he  ever  again  behold 
it?  Never,  never!  Low  in  the  earth  it  lies,  its  glories 
sullied,  its  beauties  shorn. 

"  Ah,  dear  Heaven,  why  must  such  things  be?  I,  who 
have  believed,  have  trusted  in  Thee,  have  pity  now 
on  me!  See,  Lord,  how  in  my  secret  soul,  when  many 
men  of  my  generation  have  turned  from  Thee  and 
reviled  Thee,  I  have  held  firm.  I  have  clung  to  Thee, 
found  pleasure  in  Thee;  now — now  do  not  Thou  forsake 
me,  now  in  my  sorest  need;  and  hear  me,  Lord!  It  is  but 
a  little  thing  I  crave  of  Thee,  one  poor,  frail,  most  sweet 
life!  Oh,  have  mercy—mercy!" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEAKT.  393 

He  lets  his  tired  head  fall  forward  on  his  arms,  and  a 
dry,  agonized  sob  bursts  from  him  that  seems  to  rend  soul 
from  body. 

Can  nothing  be  done?  Is  money,  that  great  lever, 
powerless,  in  this  case,  to  lift  the  veil  that  hides  her  from 
him,  and  betray  to  him  the  spot  wherein  she  is?  Is  this 
habitable  globe  so  large  that  one's  hiding-place  is  safe, 
secure?  Or  is  it,  as  he  fears,  that  death  has  crept  in  and 
borne  his  darling  from  earth's  woes  and  joys? 

"  Oh,  that  it  were  but  possible 
For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 
What  and  where  they  be!" 

But  that  it  is  not  possible  comes  home  to  him  with  a 
bitter  certainty.  A  great  gulf  that  may  not  be  crossed 
lies  between  the  living  and  the  dead.  No,  there  is  no 
hope.  She  is  gone  from  him  forever.  The  dreary  days 
must  pass  him  one  by  one,  and  still  hope  may  not  be  his. 
Desolate  winters,  joyless  summers,  he  will  endure;  but,  as 
for  her — 

He  flings  himself  down  amongst  the  fallen  leaves  and 
buries  his  face  out  of  sight;  his  overtired  spirit  has  for- 
gotten that  time  is  running  on,  that  trains  wait  for  no 
man;  he  thinks  only  of  her,  his  lost  love.  A  groan 
breaks  from  him;  a  sigh  is  lifted  upon  the  evening  breeze 
and  borne  onward  into  space- 

"  Dolores,  Dolores!  Oh,  my  heart's  idol;  shall  I  see 
thee  never  again  ?" 

****** 

By  that  sad  lake's  waters  Bouverie  lingers,  dwelling 
upon  the  lost  joys  of  his  life,  until  he  grows  sad  as  those 
poor  Israelites  whose  griefs  are  known  to  all. 

At  length  a  sudden  fear,  even  more  painful  than  those 
gone  before,  stirs  him  into  remembrance  of  the  living  mo- 
ment. He  springs  to  his  feet.  Glancing  at  his  watch  it 
u  '.Is  him  that  he  has  overstayed  his  time,  and  that  the  com- 
pelling of  sad  thought  has  drawn  him  from  his  allegiance 
to  the  passing  hour.  Already  five  o'clock  has  struck 
within  the  village  tower.  The  train  for  London  has 
sturtcd.  He  is  late  for  his  journey  to-day. 

This  knowledge  in  his  present  strained  state  of  mind 
is  terrible  to  him.  iU  has  been  false  to  his  trust,  a 


894  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

laggard  at  his  post — he,  who  has  so  sworn  to  find  hfir 
be  she  alive  or  dead! 

And  now — even  now  she  may  have  been  found,  may  be 
awaiting  him.  A  curious  certainty  that  at  last  she  has 
been  discovered — just  when  he  has  proved  himself  ap- 
parently cold  in  his  oearch — takes  full  possession  of  him, 
To  get  to  town  by  any  means  is  his  first  thought;  but 
action,  he  soon  discovers,  is  beyond  him.  To  charter  a 
special  train  would  not  be  possible  in  this  small  place,  to 
drive  to  town  would  be  more  impossible  still,  with  any 
hope  of  getting  there  in  time;  there  is  therefore  nothing 
for  it  but  to  wait  for  the  night-mail.  But  how  to  bear 
the  suspense  to  be  endured  between  then  and  now?  Still 
half  dazed  in  mind  and  wearied  in  body,  he  retraces  his 

steps  to  Greylands,  the  only  home  he  knows. 

******* 

Audrey,  after  her  encounter  with  Bouverie,  turns 
aside  from  her  intended  visit  to  Greylands,  and  wanders 
idly  away  into  the  deepening  woods  upon  her  left,  lost  in 
sad  thoughts  of  her  own  making.  But  as  the  shadows 
grow  longer  and  ever  longer,  and  evening  thrusts  itself 
upon  her,  she  rouses  herself  from  her  gloomy  dreamings, 
and,  mindful  again  of  her  original  purpose,  once  more 
with  hurrying  footsteps  hastens  to  Miss  Maturin. 

Almost  at  the  gates  of  Greylands  she  raises  her  eyes,  to 
encounter  Anthony  Vyner.  She  is  feeling  dull  and  dis- 
heartened, and  it  is  without  a  greeting  smile  that  she  ex- 
tends her  hand  to  him. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?"  asks  he, 
regarding  her  attentively. 

"  Thinking!"  returns  she,  with  a  sigh. 

He  has  never  seen  her  in  this  mood  before,  and  there 
is  a  touch  of  surprise  now  in  the  ga«e  he  has  not  with- 
drawn from  her. 

"  I  shall  walk  up  the  avenue  with  you,"  he  says  pres- 
ently; "  but  I  never  go  in  now;  I  can't  bear  intruding 
upon  her  grief." 

"  No;  every  one  distresses  her,  I  think." 

"  Except  you,"  says  Vyner  quickly. 

"  I  think  perhaps  she  knows  how  I  loved  Dolores — iu 
truth,  almost  as  well  as  she  deserved  to  be  loved.  And, 
you  see,  she  must  talk  to  some  one." 

"  There  is  Bouverifr" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  295 

"Yes;  but  one  wants  a  woman  sometimes." 

"  That  is  true,"  says  he.  There  is  a  little  silence  be- 
tween them  after  this,  and  then — "  I  would  go  even 
further  than  you,"  he  says;  "I  should  say  there  are  one 
or  two  people  who  want  some  particular  woman,  not 
sometimes,  but  always." 

"  Ah,  perhaps!"  she  sighs  again,  and  goes  with  him 
after  that  all  the  length  of  the  goodly  avenue,  without 
vouchsafing  him  another  word. 

She  seems  lost  in  thought,  and  glancing  at  her  from 
time  to  time,  he  can  not  but  see  that  such  thought  for 
him  contains  no  place. 

As  they  reach  the  flight  of  stone  steps  that  leads  up  to 
the  hall  floor,  a  woman  disappears  through  the  portal* 
into  the  dusky  hall  beyond;  a  young  man  is  about  to 
follow  her,  but  something — perhaps  the  crunching  of  the 
gravel  beneath  their  feet — causes  him  to  turn  his  head. 
Kecognizing  them,  he  runs  down  the  steps  again  and  up 
to  them. 

It  is  Sir  Chicksy  Chaucer,  in  a  high  state  of  heat  and 
excitement. 

"So  glad  you've  come,"  he  says,  addressing  Audrey 
in  a  voice  ecstatically  pitched  and  very  nervous — "so 
glad!  You  ought  to  know,  you  know.  Always  been  a 
friend  of  hers.  Yes,  yes — such  a  day  as  we've  been  hav- 
ing!" He  stops  short  and  wipes  his  softened  brow. 
"Yes,  of  course  you  really  ought  to  know,  you  know." 
he  repeats  impressively. 

"  We!  Of  whom  are  you  talking — of  Dolores?"  ask 
Audrey,  growing  very  pale;  her  voice  trembles  percepti 
bly.  "Is — is  she  with  you?" 

"  No,  no,  bless  me — not  at  all!  It  is  Mrs.  Wemyss,  you 
know.  Excellent  woman  Mrs.  Wemyss — so  superior,  so 
sensible,  so — everything,  you  know!" 

"I  can't  see  what  it  is  I  need  further  know  about  Mrs. 
Wemyss,"  says  Audrey  coldly.  Her  sudden  hopes  have 
died  as  sudden  a  death. 

"You  don't  understand!"  exclaims  Sir  Chicksy,  strug- 
gling wildly  with  his  fragile  intellect.  "We've  brought 
home  the  story,  she  and  1.  Such  a  chance  as  it  was!  Yes, 
you  really  ought  to  know,  you  know.  Come  up,  come  up- 
stairs; she'll  tell  you  all  about  it — she's  got  her  wits  about 
her," 


DICK  S    SWEETHEART. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  says  Mr.  Vyner,  with  a  sigh  of  heart- 
felt gratitude  to  beneficent  Nature. 

"  Tell  us  what?"  demands  Audrey,  in  an  agony.  "  Is 
Dolores  dead?  What  is  it?  What  have  you  heard?*' 

She  is  so  pale  now  and  so  imperious  in  manner  that  the 
miserable  little  baronet  loses  the  last  remaining  fragment 
of  that  poor  thing  he  calls  his  mind.  He  grows  visibly 
distracted;  he  appeals  vaguely  to  Vyner,  who  is  regarding 
him  with  unexampled  amazement. 

"  She  ought  to  be  prepared,"  he  says,  "  she  ought  in- 
deed; shocks  are  very  bad  things.  Now  do  be  prepared," 
he  entreats  feebly,  turning  again  to  Audrey. 

It  is  quite  plain  to  both  his  listeners  that  he  has  alto- 
gether forgotten  what  it  is  he  wants  to  say. 

"Ah,  then  it  is  all  over!"  murmurs  Audrey  brokenly. 

"  No,  no,  not  yet — not  quite;  it  may  never  be  all  over," 
says  Sir  Chicksy,  gesticulating  madly.  < '  We  don't  know, 
we  can't  say,  we  can't  be  sure;  but  you  ought  to  be  pre- 
pared." 

"  Who  is  to  prepare  me?"  exclaims  Audrey,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  grief  largely  mingled  with  irritation.  "Oh,  let 
me  get  to  somebody  who  can  speak  English!" 

She  rushes  past  the  bewildered  Chaucer,  who  is  still 
combating  with  his  unfruitful  brain,  and  enters  the 
house. 

"Look  at  that — look  at  that  now!"  exclaims  he  ac- 
cusingly, turning  a  hostile  glance  upon  Vyner.  "  She's 
quite  upset  by  all  this;  she  ought  to  have  been  prepared, 
I  said  so.  Why  didn't  you  tell  her?" 

"Tell  her  what?" 

"Why,  all  about  it!" 

"All  about  what?"  almost  roars  Vyner. 

"About  what  we've  been  talking  of,  of  course!"  shouts 
back  the  small  baronet  indignantly. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  deuce!"  says  Vyney;  and,  pushing  him 
to  one  side,  he  follows  Audrey  up  the  broad  oaken  stair- 
case to  the  pretty  sitting-room  above,  where  instinct  tells 
them  both  Miss  Maturiu  and  her  visitor  are  to  be  found. 

Here  a  little  scene  presents  itself  that  is  never  after- 
ward forgotten  by  Audrey.  Mrs.  Wemyss,  pale  and  im- 
passioned,  with  the  pretty  gayety  that  usually  distin- 
guishes her  thrust  into  the  background,  and  with  teara 
starting  from  hereyis,  is  standing  opposite  to  Miss  Maturiu 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  29? 

upon  the  hearth-rug.     She  is  talking  to  her  in  a  low  and 
rapid  tone,  and  is  using  a  good  deal  of  expressive  gesture. 

Miss  Maturin,  gazing  intently  at  her,  is  as  one  turned 
into  stone.  Is  she  glad  or  sorry?  Of  that  Audrey,  regarding 
her  eagerly  from  the  doorway  with  a  view  to  ending  her 
own  suspense,  can  not  be  sure.  She  looks  so  still,  so 
mute,  so  inexpressive,  she  has  her  hands  tightened  upon 
the  back  of  the  chair  close  to  her,  and  the  pressure  put 
upon  them  has  reduced  the  nails  to  an  absolutely  snowy'l 
whiteness. 

Audrey  moves  forward.  The  sound  of  her  coming  and 
the  steps  of  those  who  follow  her  break  up  the  unnatural 
quietude  that  has  seized  upon  Miss  Maturin  and  loosen 
the  tension  of  her  nerves.  A  great  wave  of  emotion  too 
long  suppressed  sweeps  over  her  face.  She  loses  all  self- 
control,  and,  sinking  upon  a  lounge  near  her,  covers  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"Oh,  if  there  should  be  any  mistake!"  she  murmurs, 
in  a  tone  of  terrible  fear. 

"There  is  none,"  declares  Mrs.  Wemyss  triumphantly 
— "  at  least  so  far  as  Sir  Chicksy  and  I  have  gone.  What 
lies  beyond  our  discovery  is  of  course  as  yet  unknown. 
But  I  look  for  a  happy  ending  to  our  beginning;  and,  at 
all  events,  there  is  hope." 

"  Audrey,  do  you  hear  that?"  cries  Miss  Maturin,  hold- 
ing out  her  trembling  hands.  "There  is  hope,  they  tell 
me.  Hope!  Oh,  most  blessed  word!" 

"Hope?"  stammers  Audrey,  who  can  not  yet  divest  her- 
self of  the  fear  caught  below  from  Sir  Chicksy's  blunder- 
ing explanation. 

"  Yes;  didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  whispers  that  youth  at  her 
elbow. 

"  They  have  brought  me  tidings  of  my  child,"  says 
Miss  Maturin,  with  deep  agitation.  "  She  may  yet  be 
found.  There  is  hope,  I  tell  you — hope!" 

She  clings  to  the  word.  It  seems  as  though  she  is  de- 
termined not  to  lose  her  hold  upon  the  sacred  thing  that 
for  so  long  has  been  denied  to  her.  She  recurs  to  it  again 
and  again. 

"  You  have  had  news  of  Dolores?"  falters  Audrey,  and 
then  all  suddenly  her  proud  reserve  vanishes  from  her, 
she  turns  aside,  as  though  with  a  yam  desire  to  hide  her- 
self,  and  bursts  into  tears. 


298  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

They  are  the  first  tears  any  one  there  has  ever  seen  her 
shed.  Some  people  seem  born  to  shed  tears;  to  others  it 
seems  impossible  that  such  sad  weaknesses  can  ever  be 
known.  Audrey,  proud,  reserved,  insolent,  has  passed 
among  her  kind  as  being  one  of  those  who  are  literally 
devoid  of  feeling  for  the  joys  or  woes  of  their  fellow- 
.creatures.  Her  grief  now  is  a  revelation.  To  one  of 
those  standing  in  Miss  Maturin's  boudoir,  the  girl — thus 
bowed  down  with  tender  solicitude  for  her  friend-— looks 
sweeter  far  than  ever  yet  she  seemed  to  him  in  her  brighter, 
gayer  hours. 

"Tell  her  all !"  says  Miss  Maturin,  laying  her  hand  on 
Audrey's  arm. 

The  touch  seems  pleasant  to  the  girl.  She  acknowl- 
edges it,  and,  sinking  upon  her  knees  beside  Miss  Mat- 
nrin's  chair,  hides  her  face  in  her  gown.  To  see  Audrey 
now — thus  clinging  with  such  an  utter  abandonment  of 
herself — one  would  hardly  recognize  her. 

"  There  is  so  little  to  tell,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  who  is 
still  gladly  excited.  "  But  I  can  not  help  thinking  even 
this  little  may  lead  to  something  good.  You  see,  I  had 
started  to  see  a  friend  at  Loans.  This  morning  I  went, 
and  at  the  station  met  Sir  Chicksy.  He  seemed  so  idle 
that  I  asked  him  to  come  with  me — most  fortunately  I 
asked  him!"  says  this  good-natured  woman.  "  He  came. 
We  arrived  at  Loans.  I  didn't  quite  know  the  way  to  my 
friend's  house;  so  I  sent  Sir  Chicksy  to  make  inquiries  of 
the  station-master.  Instead  of  that,  he  fell  intoconversa- 
tiou  with  the  station-master's  wife,  and — well — yes,  she — 
Dolores — had  been  seen  by  her — she  had  seen  her  there — a 
pretty  creature  in  a  dust-colored  ulster  and  a  white  gown. 
What  led  to  the  conversation  between  the  woman  and  Sir 
Chioksy  has  never  transpired;  but  I  went  back  myself 
and  cross-examined  her,  and  it  was  certainly  all  true.  The 
description  exactly  answered  to  Dolores — the  little  fragile 
figure,  the  nervous  childish  manner.  Yes,  yes" — Mrs. 
Wemyss  breaks  down  a  little —  "  I  know  it  was  she,"  she 
says,  with  a  suppressed  sob,  "  and  so  I  rushed  back  to 
tell  you  all  of  this  faint  clew  to  her  hiding-place." 

Here  Sir  Chicksy,  who  is  in  a  fever  of  excitement, 
breaks  into  the  conversation. 

"  Most  'stornary  thing!"  he  says.  "  I  asked  her  if  the 
girl  she  saw  wore  a  white  gown,  A  white  gown,  mind 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  2DS 

you!  I  remember  how  Miss  Lome  always  wore  white.  It 
fetched  the  old  woman  in  a  hurry.  '  White?'  says  she. 
'  Yes,  I  saw  her  from  the  window  as  she  talked  to  my 
man,  and  her  gown  was  white,  sure  enough.'  'Stornary 
thing  I  should  have  thought  of  askin'  that — eh?  Leadin' 
question — eh?  I  declare  to  you,  when  I  heard  her  answer 
an'  thought  of  Miss  Lome,"  says  Sir  Chicksy,  with  tearful 
joy,  "  I  was  as  glad  as  if  I'd  got  And —  Ah — hem — ha!" 
coughs  Sir  Chicksy,  retreating  into  melancholy  and  the 
background  with  his  mistake  and  his  confusion. 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Chaucer,"  says  Vyner,  grasp-' 
ing  his  hand  and  wringing  it  warmly. 

"  Yes,  yes;  when  I  heard  all  I  forgot  my  friend  and 
hurried  back  to  you,"  goes  on  Mrs.  Wemyss.  "But"- — 
nervously — "this  maybe  all!  Do  not  dwell  with  too 
great  certainty  upon  this  tale  we  bring;  disappointment 
following  upon  such  certainty  would  be  too  terrible." 

"Do  not  speak  of  disapointinent!"  exclaims  Miss  M»t- 
urin,  rising  suddenly  to  her  feet.  She  has  her  hand 
still  upon  Audrey's  arm,  and  by  a  slight  pressure  compels 
her  also  to  rise  from  her  kneeling  position.  "  Where  is 
Dick?"  she  asks,  looking  round  upon  them.  "He  must 
be  found  at  once." 

"He  has  gone  up  to  town,"  says  Audrey,  conquering 
her  emotion. 

"  He  must  be  telegraphed  for!" 

"  I'll  do  it,"  says  Vyner,  with  such  unwonted  energy 
for  him  that  they  all  stare.  "  Give  me  his  address!" 

But  no  one,  it  seems,  is  aware  of  his  present  address. 
His  clubs  are  known  of  course;  but  then  he  would  be  un- 
likely to  go  to  them  with  misfortune  so  full  upon  him 
and  his  heart  and  brain  afire  with  ever-increasing  misery. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  demands  Mrs.  Wemyss,  with 
nervous  impatience.  What  evil  genius  drove  Mr.  Bou- 
verie  to  town  this  morning?  Oil,  if  he  were  but  here 
now,  all  might  yet  be  well!" 

Hardly  has  this  oracular  speech  passed  her  lips,  when 
the  door  is  thrown  open  quickly,  and  Bouverie  himself 
enters  the  room. 

A  little  cry  from  Miss  Maturin — a  movement  toward 
him!  She  makes  a  violent  effort  to  speak,  to  explain; 
bat  words  fail  her. 

**Tell  him!"  she  sais  to  Mrs.  Wemyss,  in  a  low  whisper* 


300  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

He  has  come  slowly  into  the  room,  and,  haying  greeted 
those  nearest  to  him,  has  sunk  into  a  chair,  weary  and 
dispirited. 

"  Dick,"  cries  Audrey,  coming  up  to  him  with  her 
cheeks  all  aglow  and  her  long  lashes  still  moist  with  that 
strange  shower  of  tears  that  fell  from  her  a  moment  sinco 
— "  Dick,  they  tell  us  there  is  news  of  Dolores!" 

Bouverie  starts  as  though  shot. 

"  Oh,  no!"  he  says,  raising  his  hand,  as  though  to  ward 
off  a  blow.  "One  should  not  jest  on  such  subjects.  Why, 
you  yourself,  not  an  hour  ago,  told  me  she  was  dead!" 

He  sighs  heavily,  and,  rising  from  his  seat,  moves 
toward  the  open  window. 

"But  indeed  it  is  true,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  half  sob- 
bing, coming  up  to  him  with  her  great  soft  eyes  quite  full 
of  tears. 

And  then  she  tells  him  all  her  story — a  strange  story, 
and  singularly  incomplete;  but  it  makes  a  new  man  of 
him.  Already  he  looks  ten  years  younger,  and  his  eyes 
are  all  afire. 

"  The  hour?"  he  asks,  turning  feverishly  to  Vyner, 
without  even  vouchsafing  one  word  of  thanks  to  Mrs. 
Wemyss — but  she  forgives  all  that.  "  When  does  the 
next  train  start?" 

"  In  twenty  minutes,"  says  Sir  Chicksy,  chucking  a 
"  Bradshaw "  he  has  been  studiously  examining  into 
Vyner's  hands  as  he  speaks.  It  is  a  book  that  he  has 
taken  from  the  waiting-room  at  Loans  and  has  been 
studying  ever  since. 

"If  you  hurry,  you'll  catch  it,  old  man,"  says  Vyner, 
kindly. 

But  the  words  have  hardly  ceased  upon  the  air  when 
Bouverie  is  gone,  leaving  only  the  sound  of  his  departing 
footsteps  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Ag  the  train  steams  slowly  into  the  little  station  at 
Loans,  Bouverie  steps  out  hurriedly  and  walks  impatiently 
up  and  down  the  diminutive  platform  until  at  last  the 
engine  hurries  on  again,  leaving  the  station-master  free. 

Going  up  to  him,  Bouverie  lays  his  hand  upon  his 
arm.  Now  that  he  has  come  to  the  point,  he  feels  cold 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  301 

and  hopeless  and  utterly  out  of  heart.  The  station- 
master,  turning  to  him  with  some  surprise  depicted  upon 
his  fat  face,  gazes  curiously  at  the  eager,  haggard  young 
man  looking  down  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  distinctly  remember  having  seen  a  young 
'ooman — a  child  a'most  she  was.  This  is  the  second 
time  to-day  I've  been  asked  about  her.  Begging  your 
pardon,  sir,  are  you  bound  on  the  same  inquiry  errand  as 
them  that  came  in  the  morning?" 

In  a  few  of  the  most  prosaic  words  in  the  language 
Bouverie  gives  the  station-master  to  understand  thafc  hia 
heart  and  soul  are  bent  on  the  successful  ending  of  his 
quest. 

"Ah,  just  so!  Well,  I  saw  her  sure  enough.  Only  a 
minute,  as  it  might  be,  she  lingered  on  the  platform, 
looking  about  her  as  if  a  bit  bewildered.  I  went  up  and 
asked  her  if  I  could  do  anything  for  her,  for  she  looked 
quite  the  lady;  but  she  answered  'No'  short-like,  timid- 
like,  and  moved  away  from  me.  But,  after  a  little  while, 
she  came  back  again  to  ask  me  where  that  road  " — point- 
ing to  a  dusty  line  in  the  distance — "led  to.  *  To  Dor- 
minster,'  said  I.  *  A  secluded  place?'  asked  she,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  'Ay,  all  that,' said  I,  and  then  she 
thanked  me  with  the  prettiest  air  in  the  world,  and  went 
away  from  me  right  up  the  road." 

Was  that  all  he  could  tell?  Yes,  it  was  all.  He  had 
followed  her  with  his  eyes  until  she  was  out  of  sight,  not 
being  altogether  easy  about  her,  she  being  delicate-like, 
and  not  looking  as  one  might  who  was  accustomed  to 
walking  upon  stony  roads;  but  he  did  not  see  her  again, 
and  heard  nothing  since. 

"  But  " — here  his  face  brightens,  as  if  with  some  fort- 
unate thought — "  perhaps  my  wife  could  tell  you  some- 
thing more.  She  too  saw  the  young  lady  go  by  from  her 
window.  My  house  is  only  a  mile  or  so  from  this,  and 
she  had  watched  her  going  by.  Would  you  like  to  ask 
her  a  question  or  two,  sir?" 

The  gentleman  would.  He  turns  and  follows  the  man 
to  his  home;  but  from  the  little  trim  woman  who  cornea 
out  tc  meet  him  there  is  very  little  to  be  learned. 

"Ah,  sir,  what  a  pretty  lady — and  so  sorrowful!  I  saw 
her  as  she  went  by  this  way,  passing  almost  upon  the  very 
ipot,  sir,  where  you  now  stand." 


302  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Bouverie  starts  perceptibly  and  his  eyes  seek  the  ground. 

"  This  very  spot?" 

Did  her  tender  wandering  feet  indeed  touch  this  place 
on  which  he  now  is  standing? 

"  I  watched  her,  sir,  until  I  could  no  longer  see  her. 
Look!  Do  you  notice,  sir,  where  the  roads  join — over 
there  to  the  west?  Mayhap  not.  But  I  can.  I  was  alwayc 
a  sharp  one  with  my  eyes  from  a  youngster.  Well,  I  fol- 
lowed her  until  she  came  there,  and  then  I  saw  she  took 
the  road  that  did  not  lead  to  Dornrinster.  I  didn't  know 
sir,  until  my  good  man  came  home  that  she  meant  to  go 
to  Dorminster,  or  I'd  have  found  some  way  to  tell  her  o' 
the  mistake  she  was  making — I  felt  that  sorry  for  herl 
Such  a  pretty  young  lady  she  was!" 

"  Where  does  the  other  road — the  one  the  young  lady 
took — lead  to?"  asked  Bouverie. 

"  To  Thurston,  sir.  A  good  town  too  so  far  as  vege- 
tables goes,  but  nothing  to  Dorminster." 

"Have  you  a  trap  of  any  sort — a  horse?"  asks  Dick, 
turning  with  ill-suppressed  impatience  to  the  station- 
master. 

"  A  horse,  sir?    Yes,  but  not  for  harness." 

But  it  is  all  the  same  to  Bouverie,  to  ride  or  drive,  BO 
long  as  he  is  getting  nearer  to  her.  To  arrange  matters 
with  the  station-master  about  the  loan  of  his  horse  is  but 
the  work  of  a  moment.  There  is  no  question  about 
terms.  Leaving  his  card  and  a  sufficient  sum  of  money  to 
buy  the  melancholy  animal  presently  produced,  as  surety 
for  its  return,  Bouverie  starts  upon  his  journey. 

It  is  still  hot  noon,  and  as  yet  the  sun,  though  sinking, 
has  not  made  a  near  approach  to  the  end  of  its  race,  when 
Dick  pulls  rein  before  the  wayside  cottage  where  Dolores 
craved  a  rest. 

The  good  woman  of  the  house,  coming  forward, 
courtesies  gravely  to  the  strangely  pale  young  man  who, 
dismounting,  steps  quickly  up  to  her. 

"  Some  time  since — a  long  time  since — a  month,"  begins 
he  nervously — "  a  young  lady  might  luxve  come  by  your 
place — she  might,  I  say.  Did  you  see  her?  Do  you  know 
anything  of  her?  If  you  do,"  gazing  with  heartfelt  en- 
treaty into  her  eyes,  "I  implore  you — "  Here  he  breaks 
down  for  a  moment,  and,  turning  aside,  makes  some 
transparently  unnecessary  effort  to  alter  hia  horse's  girths. 


SWEETHEART.  303 

"  Can  you  tell  me  anything?"  he  says  presently,  in  a  low 
broken  tone. 

"A  young  lady?  Ay,  truly,  it  would  be  a  month  come 
yesterday  since  a  young  lady  walked  in  here  to  me  and 
asked  if  she  might  sit  for  a  bit.  A  young  lady  she  were 
certainly,  an'  quite  a  young  thing  too — purty,  but  so 
silent,  and  with  a  sad,  sad  story  in  her  eyes  the  while; 
perhaps  it  is  her  you  look  for,  sir?" 

"  Yes,"  says  Dick  hoarsely. 

"  Ay,  so!  I  guessed  she  come  of  decent  people,  she  was 
that  quiet  an'  reserved." 

"Did  she — was  she — how  did  she  look?"  blurts  out 
Pick  at  last,  still  employing  himself  with  a  fictitious  ex- 
amination of  the  paltry  housings  of  the  animal  he  has 
bestridden. 

"  Main  bad,  sir — an'  sorry  I  am  to  tell  it  to  the  likes  o' 
you,  an*  of  her — main  bad!  Her  face  was  white  as  the 
driven  snow,  an'  her  little  hands  were  trembling;  an'  her 
feet — "  She  hesitates,  checked  by  something  in  his  face. 

He  has  turned  completely  round,  forgetful  of  his  agita- 
tion. 

"  What?"  he  demands  imperiously. 

"They  were  bleeding!  Ay,  indeed,  the  poor  little 
goul!"  says  the  woman,  subdued  almost  into  silence  by  the 
terrible  look  in  his  eye. 

There  is  a  silence  that  seems  long,  and  then — 

"  It  can't  be  her  of  whom  you  speak!"  he  says,  in  a  low 
vehement  tone.  "It  is  impossible!"  His  face  looks 
ghastly.  "  Her  feet — her  little,  poor,  pretty  feet!"  he 
murmurs  faintly — the  very  despair  in  his  voice  kills  the 
thought  that  he  finds  anything  to  disbelieve  in  her  state- 
ment. "She  could  not  have  been  much  hurt!  Not 
much — say  it!"  cries  he,  turning  suddenly  upon  the 
woman  with  a  passionate  agony  of  grief  in  his  eyes. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  all  the  passion  dies  from 
him,  and,  letting  his  arm  fall  upon  the  seat  of  his  saddle 
and  his  head  on  his  arms,  he  burst  into  tears. 

"An'  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  him!"  says 
the  excellent  Mrs.  Burnet  to  herself;  and,  as  if  to  show 
how  sincere  she  is  in  her  belief,  she  takes  his  recipe  her- 
self, and,  covering  her  face  with  her  apron,  sobs  unre- 
strainedly for  several  minutes  in  the  most  comfortable 
manner  possible. 


304  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"''Take  heart,  dear,"  she  says,  after  awhile.  "  Whilt 
there's  life  there's  hope,  you  know,  an'  she  may  be  found 
yet — leastways,  if  you  an'  I  be  thinking  of  the  same  young 
lady.  A  white  frock  she  wore,  with  ribbons  on  it  blue  as 
her  eyes,  bless  her!  Pale  blue  they  were.  May  happen 
her  eyes  were  gray  to  some." 

"  iTes,  gray,"  says  Dick,  then,  with  a  forlorn  reproach 
in  his  tone —  "  Why  didn't  you  keep  her  till  we  found 
her?"  he  asks  miserably, 

i  "  Because  she  was  bent  on  going,"  says  Mrs.  Burnet. 
<t  An'  who  was  I  to  try  an'  stop  the  likes  o'  her?  She  was 
forever  startin'  an'  turnin',  too,  an'  lookin'  up  an*  down 
the  road,  as  if  expectin'  some  one  to  overtake  her.  You 
— you  don't  mean  her  ill,  do  you?"  says  the  good  woman, 
regarding  him  searchingly. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  could,"  says  Dick,  simply,  "  when 
I  love  her  as  I  do." 

"Ay,  so!"  says  Mrs.  Burnet,  admiringly.  "An'  are 
you  her  man?"  She  pauses  awhile  as  if  lost  in  the  vast- 
ness  of  this  new  knowledge,  and  then —  "  I  wish  I  could 
help  you,  sir,"  she  says,  sadly;  "  but  indeed  I  have  no 
more  to  tell  you.  She  left  me  without  a  word  that  could 
give  me  a  hint  as  to  where  she  was  goin',  except  that  she 
asked  me  how  far  it  was  to  Thurston.  She  was  the  Bweet- 
est  creature  I  ever  saw,  so  gentle,  so  grateful  for  the  little 
I  could  do  for  her.  Here  at  the  door,  when  she  was 
goin',  she  turned  an'  kissed  me."  The  good  woman 'i 
eyes  fill  with  tears  again  at  the  recollection,  and  she  wipes 
them  hastily  with  her  apron. 

"Thurston?"  repeats  Dick,  quickly. 

He  flings  himself  into  the  saddle.  He  has  long  since 
squeezed  something  into  Mrs.  Burnet's  hand,  and  now 
rides  up  to  her  gate,  eager  to  pursue  his  search  afresh. 
But,  as  he  stoops  to  lift  the  tiny  latch  with  his  whip,  he 
hears  her  voice  calling  after  him,  and  sees  her  running 
toward  him  as  fast  as  age  and  a  comely  stoutness  will 
permit. 

"  Stay,  sir,"  she  says;  "  there  is  one  thing — it  comes  to 
my  mind  now.  A  while  ago  I  heard,  through  one  of  the 
neighbors,  that  a  strange  ycmng  lady  had  come  to  stay  at 
a  house  about  four  miles  from  this.  I  asked  about  her, 
being  curious-li  ke,  an'  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  like 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  305 

ths  young  lady  who  came  here.  Had  she  relations  in 
those  parts,  sir?" 

"  No,"  says  Dick,  "  no,  it  could  not  be  she." 

"  Still  what  they  told  me  of  her  was  like  her,"  persists 
Mrs.  Burnet  eagerly,  "  an'  there  seemed  to  be  something 
mysterious,  too — queer,  as  it  were.  'Tis  on  your  way,  sir; 
why  shouldn't  you  see  if  it  might  be  she?" 

"  On  my  way?" 

"  Yes,  sure,  to  Thurston.  I  had  thought  many  a  time 
to  go  over  there  myself — to  the  Cottage,  I  mean — that's 
what 'tis  called — to  see  if  it  might  be  my  young  lady — 
beggin'  your  pardon,  sir — but  1  have  so  much  to  do  that 
spare  moments  is  almost  unknown  to  me.  An  old  gentle- 
man lives  at  the  Cottage;  very  charitable  he  be,  enough 
given  to  solitary  habits,  an'  never  mixin'  with  tne  neigh- 
bors round;  and  so  I  thought  as  how — " 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  there,"  says  Bouverie. 

Turning  in  his  saddle,  he  smiles  down  at  her.  There 
is  a  brightness  in  his  face  she  has  not  seen  there  before — 
a  sort  of  vague  unsatisfactory  hope  that  still  has  comfort 
in  it. 

"  Why,  there  now — I'm  glad  to  see  you  smile  at  me!" 
says  she,  kindly.  Then — "Go  your  ways,"  she  says, 
waving  him  onward,  "an'  I'll  pray  Heaven  you  may  have 
eome'at  better  than  me  to  smile  at  before  you  find  your 
bed  this  night." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  dying  sun  is  glinting  through  the  waving  trees, 
casting  warm  patches  of  light  upon  the  mossy  sward. 
There  is  no  sound  upon  the  calm  evening  air  save  the 
murmur  of  the  stream  and  the  gentle  movement  of  the 
boughs  and  grasses.  .  Just  here  the  lawn  is  lost  in  a  dense 
shadow  cast  by  the  branching  trees  that  grow  low  down 
until  their  drooping  leaves  reach  even  to  the  water's  bosom. 

The  inexplicable  sweetness  of  the  air,  the  softness,  the 
purity  of  tone,  the  depth  of  the  greenness  that  lies  within 
that  charmed  range  of  firs  upon  the  right  hand,  who  shall 
give  voice  to  it  all?  It  is,  indeed,  a  perfect  evening,  a 
lingering  remembrance  of  a  most  perfect  summer. 

"  Sorrow's  crown  of  »owow  ig  remembering  happier  things." 


306  DICK'S    SWEETHEAET. 

Dolores,  standing  in  the  foreground  of  this  charming 
picture,  with  her  hands  clasped  listlessly  before  her,  looks 
as  though  her  pale  young  head  had  been  already  bound  by 
that  sad  wreath.  A  slight  willowy  figure  she  appears, 
gazing  with  sorrowing  eyes  into  her  past,  and  forgetful 
for  the  moment  of  a  future  that  can  contain  for  her  no 
hope. 

She  is  clad  in  a  white  gown — the  same  white  gown  in 
which  she  left  her  home,  now  made  fresh  and  pretty  again 
as  Mrs.  Edge  worth's  hands  could  manage.  The  last  beams 
of  the  sun  are  dancing  brilliantly  about  her  head,  which 
is  scarcely  a  degree  less  sunny  than  they;  on  every  branch 
the  birds  are  chanting  their  even-song,  but  all  unheeded 
by  her.  Her  thoughts  are  far  away — lost  in  mournful 
memories  of  home — of  him! 

Her  gaze  is  fixed  upon  that  tiny  speck  of  the  great  ocean 
that  shows  clearest  through  the  break  in  the  beach-trees. 
Is  she  thinking  of  a  day  now  gone,  when  she  walked  hand 
in  hand  with  one  most  dear  to  her  along  a  gleaming  shore, 
alovelightin  her  eyes  brighter  than  "saint-sedncinggold"f 

She  is  quite  motionless.  Not  a  movement  betrays  the 
fact  that  she  is  living.  Her  soul  is  wandering,  and  the 
body  waits  in  silent  ecstasy  for  its  return.  Her  fragil  ef  orm 
resists  the  evening  breeze;  her  face — too  thin,  alas,  and 
worn,  and  too  full  of  spirituality  for  this  gross  earth! — is 
slightly  raised,  so  that  one  watching  may  mark  the  ravages 
that  grief  and  illness  have  laid  on  it.  There  are  no  teara 
within  her  eyes;  but  there  is  a  sad  wistfulness  about  her 
earnest  mouth  more  pitiful  than  any  weeping. 

Now  she  sighs  faintly,  and  her  eyes  wander  to  the  yel- 
low hills  beyond,  on  which  already  the  mists  of  evening 
are  descending.  Perhaps,  there,  just  behind  them,  lies  her 
home — dear  word! — and  all  that  made  life  sweet. 

How  long  is  it  since  last  she  dwelt  with  those  she  loves? 
Four  weeks?  Nay,  a  century,  rather!  What  a  world  oi 
time  has  passed  her  by  since  then!  Must  all  her  coming 
days  be  dreary  as  these  last,  all  colorless,  all  blank?  She 
trembles  as  she  pictures  to  herself  the  terrible  monotony 
of  the  gray  existence  she  has  sketched  out  for  herself — an 
existence  barren  of  love  and  tender  ties,  and  such  fond 
trivial  things  that  serve  to  make  life  bearable. 

Well,  it  is  better  so!  The  twining  fingers  clasp  each 
other  with  a  fiercer  warmth,  and  the  throbbing  heart  beats 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  30? 

back  a  growing  sob.  And  it  is  all  so  long  ago  now,  and 
no  word,  no  sign. 

Yes,  they  must  deem  her  dead!  No  doubt  they  now 
think  of  her  as  one  lying  in  her  quiet  grave,  with  all 
life's  torments  ended,  and  that  sad  stain  npon  her  name 
lost,  left  behind  in  the  world's  hurry  as  it  marches  ever 
onward  in  hot  haste. 

And  indeed,  if  by  this  time  they  have  begun  to  think 
her  as  dead,  they  have  not  so  very  far  exceeded  the  truth. 
Another  faint  deepening  of  that  heavy  fever,  a  few  days 
more  of  exhaustion,  and  she  might  have  been  reckoned 
with  those  who  are  no  longer  amongst  the  living.  So 
near  she  was  to  the  end  of  her  life's  journey  that  almost 
they  might  believe  she  had  reached  it. 

Oh,  how  cruel  were  the  kindly  hands  that  had  pulled 
her  back  from  the  grave!  What  an  irreparable  injury 
did  these  good  Samaritans  do  her  when  they  raised  her 
from  her  sick-couch  and  rescued  her  from  the  arms  of 
Death,  into  whose  embrace  she  would  willingly  have 
sunk!  Now,  even  now,  she  might  have  been  at  rest, 
lying  with  straightened  limbs  and  feverless  brain,  with 
nothing  to  press  upon  her  heart  save  the  cool  earth  and 
the  throbbings  of  the  gently-growing  grasses.  Under 
the  dewy  sod  she  would  be  resting  in  a  great  peace,  her 
soul  in  heaven. 

She  clasps  her  little  slender  hands  and  sighs  convul- 
sively. In  heaven  home  might  have  been  found  again, 
and  the  Dear  Father  of  all  would  have  forgiven  her  sins. 
She  had  been  wicked,  perhaps — yes,  often;  but  indeed  she 
had  tried  to  be  good — only  there  is  so  much  always  to  be 
longed  for  here,  although  so  little  to  be  gained. 

"  To  live  as  we  should  always  die, 

It  were  a  goodly  trade; 
To  change  low  death  for  life  so  high, 

No  better  change  is  made. 
For  all  our  worldly  things  are  vain, 

In  them  there  is  no  trust; 
We  see  all  things  awhile  remain, 

And  then  they  change  to  dust." 

Hovr  still  it  grows!  How  long  the  shadows  lie!  Al- 
ready Apollo  has  sunk  in  a  crimson  glory  behind  the 
nearest  hills.  How  quickly  the  stars  are  coming  out  to 
deck  the  summer  skyl  la  it  as  being  behind  those  scars 


308  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

that  they  dream  of  her  at  home?  Has  even  Dick  come 
to  think  of  her  as  dead?  Oh,  dear,  dear  Dick!  Did  he 
know  how  she  loved  him — that  it  was  for  him — to  save 
him  from  the  dull  burning  pain  that  will  live  in  her  own 
heart  forever — that  she  left  all,  all? 

A  dry  but  passionate  sob  breaks  from  her.  It  seems  to 
agitate  all  her  delicate  frame.  The  eager  longing  of  her 
spirit  is  almost  past  control  as  she  dwells  on  what  is  and 
what  might  have  been,  had  not  those  past  days,  so  rich  in 
gladness,  being  overshadowed  by  BO  cruel  a  cloud. 

With  a  little  gesture  full  of  despair,  she  turns  as  though 
to  go  in-doors.  Her  sudden  movement  prevents  a  young 
man,  who  for  a  long  time  has  been  watching  her  in  a 
nervous  anxiety  that  has  checked  his  desire  to  advance, 
from  falling  back  into  the  shadows  of  the  evergreens  be- 
hind him.  Thus  surprised  he  wisely  stands  still,  and  lets 
his  longing  eyes  seek  hers. 

Then  all  in  a  moment  she  sees  him.  Her  mind  flies 
back  from  distant  thoughts  of  him  to  the  knowledge  that 
he  is  here  before  her,  standing  over  there  in  this  most 
blessed  twilight. 

He  comes  quickly  up  to  her  and  holds  out  his  arms,  an 
agony  of  love  upon  his  face.  She  runs  to  him;  she  flings 
her  innocent  arms  around  his  neck,  and  clings  to  hini  as 
a  tired  child  might  cling  who  in  its  weariest  hour  has 
regained  its  parent's  breast. 

No  tears  fall  from  her;  no  word  escapes  her.  She  lies 
within  his  arms  quiescent,  her  breath  hardly  seems  to 
pass  her  lips. 

"  My  darling,  my  soul! "  exclaims  the  young  man,  with 
uncontrollable  emotion.  "  Speak  to  me,  let  me  hear  your 
voice! " 

As  though  the  sound  of  the  old  well-loved  tones  has 
power  to  rouse  her,  she  stirs  within  his  arms,  and  a  heavy 
sigh  escapes  her.  For  a  moment  she  regains  consciousness. 

"  It  has  been  a  long,  long  time! "  she  whispers,  so 
faintly  that  he  has  to  stoop  to  hear  her. 

"Too  long!"  returns  he,  with  vehemence. 

He  might  perhaps  have  said  more,  but  something — 
some  slight  lessening  of  the  hold  of  the  gentle  arms — tells 
him  the  truth.  Gazing  with  anxious  haste  into  her  face, 
he  s?es  that  she  has  fainted. 

Lifting  his  shadowj  burden  and  holding  it  close  to  his 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  309 

f 

heart,  Bouverie  moves  toward  the  house.  Holding  thus 
the  thing  he  loves  best  in  the  world,  he  learns,  with  a  lit- 
tle pang  of  sorrow,  how  light  his  burden  is — so  light  that 
it  can  hardly  so  be  called.  How  white  she  looks — how 
still!  Is  it  only  unconsciousness,  or  is  it —  With  a  look 
of  terror  upon  his  face,  he  hastens  his  footsteps. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  rapid  movement  through  the  air,  per- 
haps the  beating  of  her  lover's  heart  so  near  her  own,  or 
the  mere  consciousness  of  his  presence,  that  revives  her; 
at  all  events,  before  he  has  half  covered  the  ground  that 
separates  them  from  the  house,  she  is  restored  to  life 
again. 

She  struggles  faintly  to  her  feet,  and,  still  leaning 
heavily  against  him,  sighs  softly: 

"It  is  you,  then,  Dick,  and  no  dream?"  she  whispers 
at  last. 

"  It  is  I,  my  darling." 

"  Don't  take  me  to  the  house — at  least  not  yet.  The 
soft  air  does  me  good;  and  there  are  so  many  things  I 
must  say  to  you  alone." 

She  sinks  upon  a  garden-seat  near  her,  and  he,  wrapping 
a  loose  shawl  that  is  lying  there,  very  tenderly  around 
her,  seats  himself  beside  her.  They  are  so  hemmed  in  by 
the  rhododendrons  that  they  are  quite  hidden  from  the 
outer  world. 

"You  are  sure  you  are  better  here  than  in- doors?"  he 
asks  her.  anxiously. 

"  Quite  sure.  It  was  only  a  momentary  weakness.  It 
is  gone  now.  You  startled  me  a  little" — with  a  wan 
smile — "  not  you  so  much,  perhaps,  as  the  strange  fear 
that  what  I  saw  was  merely  a  vision,  and  that  I  should 
wake  from  it  presently  to  find  you  as  lost  to  me  as  you 
were  before." 

"  You  have  been  ill?"  says  the  young  man,  abruptly, 
unmistakable  anguish  in  his  "tone. 

"  Yes,  for  a  short  time.  But  never  mind  that  now. 
Tell  me  of—" 

"  I.  must  mind  it.  What  is  it  that  has  made  you  the 
wreck  you  now  are?" 

"  A  fever  of  some  sort.  But  it  was  nothing  much,  or 
I  could  not  be  so  well  as  I  am  now.  YOU  can  see  that  fo~ 
yourself." 


S10  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  I  can  see  that  you  are  but  a  shadow  of  your  former 
self." 

"  A  very  substantial  shadow.  Oh,  Dick,  hear  me!  I 
will  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know  afterward;  but  first  tell 
me  of  Lallie." 

"  What  of  her?" 

"She  is  well?" — with  tremulous  anziety. 

"  Well  as  a  distressed  mind  will  let  her  be.  You  alone 
fill  all  her  thoughts  night  and  day.  Think  then  if  she  can 
be  altogether  as  well  as  you  could  wish  hsr." 

"  You  are  unkind,"  says  the  girl,  with  a  quick  sob. 

"Just  now  she  is  buoyed  up  with  a  hope,  which,  thank 
God,  will  not  prove  an  altogether  vain  one.  But,  if  I  had 
failed  to  find  you —  Oh,  dear,  dear  love."  cries  he,  with 
passionate  reproach,  "  how  could  you  so  have  trifled  with 
what  was  all  the  world  to  us,  your  life?" 

"  I  didn't  invite  the  fever  to  visit  me,"  returns  she,  in 
quaint  defense.  "  It  wasn't  my  fault  that  it  came,  though 
in  truth  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  it  in  many  ways. 
Those  first  days  of  happy  unconsciousness,  and  those 
others,  when  I  was  too  weak  to  feel  anything  but  indiffer- 
ence, killed  the  time  that  lay  for  me  between  then  and 
now.  Had  I  been  in  my  proper  senses  all  those  intermina- 
ble hours,  I  should  have  been  driven  to  my  death  by  fret- 
ting and  worrying  and  longing  for  you!  But  yet  "- 
steadfastly — "  believe  me,  I  should  never  have  sought  you 
or  recalled  you — never.  I  would  have  lived  my  pain 
through  even  though  my  life  should  be  its  cost.  And 
now  " — sadly — "  it  has  all  to  be  done  over  again.  My  past 
trouble  goes  for  naught."  Sue  catches  her  breath  heavily. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  says  presently,  "how  it  was  I  failed,  how 
you  discovered  me." 

"  It  wasn't  I/'  says  Dick.  Then  he  laughs  with  an  ir- 
resistible merriment.  "  I  give  you  a  guess,"  he  says,  "  as 
to  who  was  the  real  finder." 

"Audrey?" 

"No — Sir  Chicksy.  There!  Did  you  ever  think  he 
would  rise  to  such  a  height  to  be  regarded  as  a  person 
of  vital  importance,  the  actual  discoverer  of  our  little 
deserter?" 

"You  musn't  call  me  names,"  murmurs  she,  with  a 
faint  return  of  the  old  pretty,  mischievous  spirit. 

This  gleam  from  the  far-off  days  strikes  with  a  certain 


KICK'S    SWEETHEART.  311 

sense  of  pain  upon  Bouverie's  heart.  His  eyes  fill  with, 
tears 

"  I  have  answered  all  your  questions,"  he  says.  "  Now 
answer  mine.  Tell  me  how  it  is  you  are  here,  and  with 
whom — " 

In  a  few  words  she  makes  him  master  of  all  her  actions 
from  the  hour  she  left  Greylands  until  now.  With  sim- 
ple, but  earnest,  gratitude,  she  dwells  upon  the  tender 
care  showered  upon  her  by  those  strangers  into  whose 
life  she  has  fallen. 

"  Without  a  hesitation,  not  knowing  who  or  what  I 
was,"  she  concludes,  "  they  took  me  in  and  tended  me 
with  a  carefulness,  a  sympathy,  not  to  be  surpassed.  So 
long  as  I  live  I  shall  bear  in  my  heart  the  memory  of  their 
good  deeds  to  me." 

"  It  is  well  to  know  that  their  reward  is  sure,"  says 
Bouverie,  solemnly. 

There  is  silence  for  awhile,  and  then  suddenly,  as 
though  some  thought  he  has  been  harboring  has  been  too 
strong  for  him,  he  turns  to  her  with  a  curious  anger  in 
his  eyes,  which  is  still  overpowered  by  love. 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  treating  us  as  you  did?"  he 
says.  "Did  you  understand?  Did  you  do  it  willfully? 
Or  is  it  possible  you  could  not  guess  at  the  depth  of  t'lie 
misery  to  which  you  consigned  us?  It  was  a  living  death 
we  endured  from  day  to  day.  Did  you  know  how  we 
Buffered?"  He  lays  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  com- 
pels her  to  meet  his  burning  eyes. 

"  Yes,  for  I  suffered  too,"  returns  she,  gently. 

"  Not  one-hundredth  part  so  much  as  we  did.  I  tell 
you  it  was  horrible,  the  doubt,  the  despair,  the  everlast- 
ing fear!" 

"Ah,  do  not  scold  me!"  entreats  she  lovingly.  She 
nestles  closer  to  him.  She  steals  one  hand  round  his 
neck,  and  with  the  other  turns  his  sad  face  to  her  own. 
"  Dear  good  Dick!"  she  whispers  wooingly,  and  presses 
upon  his  lips  a  little  soft  fond  kiss.  There  is  a  pause,  and 
then — "  I  do  think,"  she  says,  with  flattering  conviction, 
"  that  you  have  the  very  handsomest  and  nicest  face  in 
all  the  world." 

What  man  could  withstand  this?  Bouverie,  in  spite  of 
his  stern  endeavor  to  the  contrary,  smiles  broadly. 

"There  now — see  how  conceited  we  canlookl"  says  his 


312  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

temptress,  meanly  taking  advantage  of  his  slight  derelic« 
tion  from  the  cold  paths  of  virfcue.  As  she  apeaks,  she 
blusbes  generously  and  laughs  aloud. 

But  this  very  giving  voice  to  her  mirth  murders  it. 
She  starts  as  though  struck  by  some  unknown  hand.  The 
mere  sound  of  her  own  merriment  has  frightened  her. 
She  checks  it  and  pales  again. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  have  laughed,"  she  says,  in  a  troubled 
whisper,  "since  last  I  saw  you."  Some  painful  recollec- 
tion returns  to  her,  and  she  shudders.  "  Oh,  those  last 
days!"  she  says.  "If  I  could  only  forget  them!  If  I 
might  blot  them  from  my  happy  past!  But  they  spoil 

"  Our  past  may  not  be  altered,"  says  Bouverie.  "  But, 
to  compensate  for  it,  there  is  always  the  bright  possibility 
of  a  glad  future." 

"  The  future!  To  me  it  brings  no  comfort,"  returns 
she,  with  lowered  eyes  and  tone. 

"It  shall!"  says  Dick  stoutly. 

At  f^is  moment  a  voice  comes  to  them  across  the  scented 
lawn. 

"  Miss  Dolores,  Miss  Dolores!" 

"  I  am  coming,"  returns  Dolores,  quickly. 

"Oh,  come,  come,  come!  Do,  my  dear!  The  dew  is 
beginning  to  fall." 

"It  isn't,  you  know,"  says  Dolores,  softly  smiling  at 
Dickf  "  but  Mrs.  Edgeworth  hates  to  see  me  out  after 
sundown." 

"She  is  right.  Yes,  come  in!"  exclaims  Bouverie,  re- 
pentantly. "  How  mad  of  me  to  keep  you  out  all  this 
time!  Come,  darling!" 

"  Not  until  you  say  you  have  forgiven  me.  You  were 
angry  with  me  a  moment  since.  I  can  not  bear  that.  If 
I  have  caused  you  pain,  Dick,  try — try  to  learn  that  it 
was  for  your  own  sake  I  inflicted  it." 

"  I  suppose  you  meant  it  so.  But  what  a  mistake  it 
has  all  been!  And  how  could  you  keep  silence  for  so  long? 
"Why  did  you  not  write?" 

"  I  have  told  you.  I  wished  you  to  forget  me!  And 
then  I  fell  ill;  and  then — then  I  hoped  you  would  believe 
nae  dead." 

"What  cruelty  can  lie  behind  a  little  saint-like  face!" 
ea^aims  Bouverie,  taking  the  "saint-like  face"  between  his 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  813 

hands  and  regarding  it  long  and  earnestly.  "  My  sweet- 
heart, how  pale  you  are!"  he  says  presently.  "Surely 
the  cruelty  I  spoke  of  has  recoiled  upon  yourself!  Oh, 
my  poor  little  pallid  love!"  Then  with  a  sudden  tri- 
umphant change  of  tone — "  But  what  does  it  all  mat- 
ter," cries  he,  "  since  you  are  alive — alive,  and  in  my 
arms?" 

With  a  rush  of  the  most  impulsive,  tenderest  passion, 
he  catches  her  to  his  beating  heart,  holding  her  there 
closely,  as  though  to  assure  himself  that  it  is  indeed  she, 
the  woman  he  adores,  changed  perhaps  and  saddened  by 
her  swift  glance  at  life,  but  still  her  very  own  self. 

"  Come  in,"  he  says,  presently;  "  you  must  not  remain 
here  any  longer." 

"  Well,  now  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Mildmay," 
returns  she;  and,  slipping  her  hand  into  his,  she  conducts 
him  across  the  lawn  and  through  the  tiny  garden  to 
where  the  glass  door  stands  that  gives  access  to  Mr.  Mild- 
may's  study.  Two  stone  steps  lead  up  to  his  door. 

"  Keep  a  little  behind  me/'  she  whispers,  with  a  pretty, 
half-mischievous  smile;  and  then,  opening  the  glass  door, 
she  steps  lightly  into  the  room. 

At  her  entrance  an  old  man — as  he  appears  to  Dicfc — 
rises  from  his  seat  and  advances  to  greet  her,  with  the 
gentle  smile  of  welcome  upon  his  lips  he  always  has  for 
her. 

"  I  have  come  to  bring  you  such  news — good  news — 
really  great  news!"  says  Dolores,  with  charming  excite- 
ment in  voice  and  manner.  She  throws  out  her  hands 
a  little.  "Dick  has  come,"  she  says,  "Dick!"  She 
is  evidently  of  the  opinion  that  "Dick "is  a  person  of 
world-wide  renown.  "  He  has  found  me  out!  He  is 
here — see!"  as  Bouverie  comes  slowly  into  view,  smiling 
also.  "  This  is  Dick!"  It  is  with  unconcealed  pride  she 
thus  introduces  him.  "Cornein,  Dick;  you  may  come 
quite  in.  Oh,  dear,  dear  Mr.  Mildmay,  aren't  you  glad?" 
She  throws  her  arms  around  Mr.  Mildmay's  neck  as  she 
says  this,  and  gives  him  a  warm  hug  in  her  great  joy. 

"  Some  one  from  your  old  home?  This  is  indeed  » 
happy  occasion,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay  gently,  though  per- 
haps he  does  not  look  altogether  so  happy  as  he  could 
wish.  Is  his  little  bird  of  passage  to  be  so  soon  borne 
away  from  the  strange  meat?  There  is  something  almost 


314:  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

dismal  in  the  careful  gayety  of  his  glance  as  he  turns  it 
full  on  Bouverie.  "  I  bid  you  welcome,  sir,  although 
our  little  friend,"  patting  her  soft  curls  with  a  loving 
hand,  "  has  omitted  to  tell  me  aught  of  you  except  your 
Christian  name." 

"  My  other  name  is  Bouverie,"  says  Dick,  with  a  court- 
eous bow. 

But  the  word  has  scarcely  passed  his  lips  when  a  change 
comes  over  Mr.  Mildmay.  He  starts  as  if  hurt,  and  a 
leaden  hue  covers  his  face.  He  tries  to  say  something, 
but  fails;  and  then  all  at  once  Dolores  feels  him  grow 
heavy  as  he  leans  against  her.  He  shudders,  and,  but 
that  Bouverie  catches  him  as  he  sways  forward,  would 
fall  inertly  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MR.  MILDMAY  is  still  only  half  conscious.  Mrs.  Edge- 
worth,  bending  over  him,  is  applying  some  nostrums  of  her 
own  decocting  to  his  mouth  and  nose;  Dolores  is  holding 
his  hand  and  gazing  at  him  with  the  keenest  anxiety  in 
her  lovely  eyes.  Bouverie,  at  a  little  distance,  is  also 
watching  him,  with  a  fascinated  intentness  he  does  not 
disguise  even  from  himself.  Who  is  it  that  this  old  man 
resembles?  He,  as  well  as  Dolores,  has  discovered  in  Mr. 
Mildmay  a  remarkable  likeness  to  some  person  or  persons 
unknown. 

"What  caused  the  faint,  miss?  What  happened  to 
him?"  asks  Mrs.  Edgeworth  of  Dolores,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  don't  know— I  haven't  the  faintest  idea,"  returns 
Dolores,  in  deep  distress.  "  He  came  there  to  the  door  to 
greet  me  as  kindly  as  usual.  I  brought  in  my  friend, 
and —  How  was  it,  Dick?" — turning  to  Bouverie.  "I 
think  I  had  just  barely  time  to  introduce  you  to  him 
when  he  fainted — eh?" 

"Ay,  so!"  says  the  housekeeper  curiously.  She  has 
taken  hardly  any  notice  of  Dick  up  to  this;  but  now  she 
regards  hiin  with  open  scrutiny. 

"  Your  name,  sir?"  she  asks  quietly,  with  the  utmost 
rtspect. 

"  Bouverie,"  says  Dick,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her. 

$he  turns  her  head  abruptly  aside,  pretending  to  busy 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  315 

herself  with  her  patient,  but  not  before  Bouverie  has 
noticed  the  dull  red  that  has  flamed  into  her  cheeks  and 
the  trembling  of  her  lips. 

"  I  must  regret  that  my  name  is  my  name,"  he  says 
calmly,  still  watching  her,  "  if,  as  I  must  believe,  it  has 
been  the  cause  of  your  master's  illness." 

"  The  name  certainly  is  known  to  him,"  returns  Mrs. 
Edgeworth,  in  a  constrained  tone.  "  In  former  days  he 
was — was  connected  with  it  in  some  way,  and  sorrow  has 
attached  itself  to  those  days.  But,  doubtless,  sir,  there 
are  many  of  your  name — so  many  that  we  need  not  con- 
nect you  with  those  who — whose  lives  were  once  mixed  up 
with  Mr.  Mild  may's." 

Her  hesitation  is  apparent.  That  she  has  found  a 
difficulty  in  pronouncing  her  master's  name  is  felt  by 
both  Dick  and  Dolores. 

"  I  wish,"  she  begins,  and  then  breaks  off  abruptly  to 
turn  her  attention  to  Mr.  Mild  may,  who  has  now  suf- 
ficiently recovered  from  his  unconsciousness  to  be  able  te 
recognize  those  around  him. 

As  if  instinctively,  his  glance  wanders  to  Bouverie. 

"I  fear  I  have  distressed  you,"  says  Dick,  advancing 
to  him  and  speaking  regretfully.  "  Perhaps  it  will  be 
better  for  me  to — " 

"  No,  no;  I  beg  you  will  stay  where  you  are,"  says 
Mr.  Mildrnay,  rightly  interpreting  his  meaning.  "You 
have  done  me  no  harm.  A  sudden  thought — the  remem- 
brance of  some  old  ties  now  severed — the  hurried  return 
of  some  lost  memories — all  helped  to  upset  me;  and  my 
heart  is  perhaps  not  altogether  so  strong  as  it  once  was. 
I  am  to-day  an  older  man,  sir,  than  I  should  be!" 

Bouverie  is  about  to  speak  again,  but  he  checks  him. 

"I  beg  you  will  stay  with  us  to-night,  and  as  long  as 
you  remain  in  the  neighborhood.  Mrs.  Edgeworth  will 
get  you  a  room — eh?" — turning  to  the  housekeeper. 

"  Certainly,  sir,  if  the  gentleman  will  not  object  to 
putting  up  with  some  trifling  inconveniences.  The  hous« 
is  small,"  says  Mrs.  Edgeworth,  with  lowered  glance. 

"I  only  hope  yon  will  give  yourself  no  trouble  on  my 
account,"  says  Dick  pleasantly.  "I  thank  you  very 
rauch,  Mr.  Mildmay,  and  " — with  a  hurried  glance  at  hia 
little  love — "  should  like  you  to  know  that  I  shall  b« 
happier  here  than  anywhere  in  the  world." 


316  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"That  is  well,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay.  "I  had  hardly 
time  to  understand  much,  but  I  think  Dolores  said  you 
were  a  friend  of  hers?" — with  a  keen  but  exhausted  look 
at  the  young  man. 

"  More  than  that,"  returns  Dick,  smiling.  "  I  am 
her  affianced  husband!" 

"  No,  no,  Dick,"  says  the  girl  with  a  warning  gesture; 
but  Bouverie  declines  to  notice  it. 

"  So,  so!"  says  the  old  man,  thoughtfully.  He  holds 
out  his  hand  to  Dolores.  *•  Come  here,"  he  says,  gently. 

She  obeys  him,  and,  kneeling  down  by  his  side,  lays  her 
cheek  against  his  shoulder  in  one  of  the  pretty  caressing 
fashions  that  belong  to  her. 

Bouverie,  turning  aside,  engages  Mrs.  Edgeworth  in  a 
whispered  consultation  about  the  postal  arrangements  in 
this  part  of  the  country. 

"  So  you  take  up  the  thread  of  your  life  again?"  says 
Mr.  Mildmay,  laying  his  hand  upon  Dolores'  shoulder. 
"This  young  man — you  will  return  with  him?  You  will 
go  back  to  your  people?  I  shall  be  again  bereft."  There 
is  iu  his  voice  the  most  mournful  intonation.  ( '  You  were 
like  her,"  he  goes  on,  musingly;  "  all  my  heart  went,  out 
to  you.  "  If  my  little  daughter  had  lived,  she  could  not 
have  been  dearer  to  me;  and  now  I  lose  you,  too.  I  shall 
not  see  you  again.  I  am  too  old  to  push  my  way  once 
more  into  the  unfriendly  world,  and  you  " — an  expression 
of  indescribable  melancholy  steals  over  his  face — "you 
will  forget,"  he  murmurs,  with  sad  prophecy. 

"  No,  no,  my  more  than  father!"  whispers  the  girl 
tremulously.  "  Do  not  thus  misjudge  me.  To  forget 
such  Jove  as  yours  would  be  impossible.  My  secret  is  as 
yet  unknown  to  you;  but,  believe  me,  this  coming  of  my 
friend  has  not  altered  my  determination  to  separate  my- 
self  from — from  those  who  are  to  me  the  dearest  upon 
earth." 

Her  voice  falters;  but  her  spirit,  as  seen  through  her 
clear  eyes,  is  still  steadfast  in  its  sad  renunciation. 

"You  will  stay  here,  then?"  asks  he,  eagerly. 

"  That  would  be  impossible!  I  must  leave  you,  if  only 
to  hide  myself  again  from  those  who  would  seek  to  per- 
suade me  to  return  home,  to  their  own  detriment.  How 
hard  it  is  to  explain,  hampered  as  I  am  by  the  fear  of  dis- 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

covery!"  cries  she,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  sorrowful  im- 
patience. 

"  I  have  told  you  I  would  not  seek  to  inquire  into  your 
history,"  murmurs  Mr.  Mildmay,  somewhat  wistfully. 
"Bat—" 

"  Yes,  yes!  I  have  decided,"  interrupts  she  feverishly. 
"  I  will  confide  in  you.  You  shall  know  all  when — when 
he  is  gone  again,  and  I  shall  be  left  alone!" 

The  touch  of  utter  desolation  in  her  eyes  as  she  says  thiL 
goes  to  the  old  man's  heart. 

"  Poor  child!"  he  whispers  faintly. 

He  leans  back  in  his  chair,  and  again  the  ashen  hue 
overspreads  his  face.  By  an  effort  he  rouses  himself,  and, 
motioning  to  Dolores  to  rise  to  her  feet,  turns  to  Bouverie. 

"  I  fear  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,  sir,  for  the  even- 
ing," he  says,  in  an  exhausted  tone,  but  with  gentle  dig- 
nity. "I  feel  a  good  deal  shaken;  that  little  nervous 
attack  of  a  moment  since  has  so  unstrung  me  that  I  am 
afraid  1  can  not  in  person  minister  to  your  comfort  to- 
night. But  I  leav  eyou  in  able  hands."  He  smiles  kindly, 
with  a  gesture  of  the  hand  toward  Dolores.  "Our  little 
friend  will  entertain  you,"  he  says,  gently;  "  doubtless 
you  and  she  have  much  to  say  to  each  other  after  so  long 
and  so  trying  a  parting." 

He  touches  the  girl's  hand  affectionately,  and  then,  with 
much  apparent  difficulty,  rises  from  his  chair.  He  looks 
old  and  enfeebled;  Bouverie,  going  hastily  to  his  side, 
draws  his  hand  through  his  arm,  and  leads  him  to  the 
door. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Mildrnay,  courteously.  In 
some  little  odd  way  it  now  becomes  apparent  to  all  present 
that  he  avoids  using  Bonverie's  name  when  addressing 
him.  "  I  have  indeed  become  an  old  man,"  he  says,  with 
a  sigh — "  older  than  I  should  be." 

At  the  door  he  comes  to  a  stand -still  and  regards  Dick 
long  and  earnestly. 

"  Not  a  feature,  not  a  feature!"  he  mutters  to  himself; 
and  then,  aloud — "  Your  face  is  unfamiliar,  sir;  I  see  no 
likeness — none,  though  I  had  fancied  I  might  have  traced 
some  small  resemblance.  What — "  A  question  is  plainly 
hovering  upon  his  lips,  but  he  suppresses  it.  "  Enough, 
enough!"  he  iays,  hurriedly.  "Tut,  tut,  tut!  What 


318  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

foolish  thoughts  we  have!    To- morrow,  perhaps,  to-mor- 
row !" 

He  salutes  Bouverie  with  old-world  courtesy,  and,  tak- 
ing the  housekeeper's  arm,  quits  the  room  with  her,  thus 
leaving  the  lovers  alone. 

The  long,  long  conversation  that  ensues  between  them 
has  not  as  yet  shown  even  the  first  signs  of  wear  when 
Mrs.  Edgeworth  returns  to  them,  accompanied  by  a 
"neat-handed  Phyllis"  bearing  a  tea-equipage. 

Acknowledging  her  presence  to  be  a  fatal  barrier  to  fur- 
ther love-dreams,  Bouverie,  with  a  sigh,  comes  back  to 
the  present,  and  shakes  himself  clear  of  the  light,  happy, 
but,  alas!  too  fragile  bands  that  hope  has  been  weaving 
round  him.  He  had  been  lost  in  an  ecstatic  future,  where 
Dolores'  slight  shadowy  figure  moved  as  queen — a  future 
he  had  ever  pictured  to  himself  before  the  blight  descend- 
ed upon  them  and  that  cruel  bolt  had  fallen  from  out  the 
blue  of  their  lives  to  blast  their  fondest  desires. 

Mrs.  Edgeworth,  standing  respectfully,  pours  out  their 
tea  and  carves  the  fowl  (while  Bouverie  cuts  the  delicate 
ham  into  thinnest  shreds),  and  presses  the  dainty  hot 
cakes  of  her  own  making  upon  the  pleasant-voiced  young 
man  who  has  in  so  short  a  time  made  an  inroad  upon  her 
matronly  heart. 

There  is,  too,  amongst  all  her  other  virtues,  an  inward 
sense  of  sympathy  that  compels  this  worthy  woman  to 
hasten  over  her  duties  at  the  tea-table.  She  refrains  from 
lingering;  she  cuts  many  small — usual,  but  useless — 
services  short.  She,  in  a  word,  helps  the  lovers  to  that 
renewed  solitude  where  alone  a  memory  born  of  her  by- 
gone days  assures  her  they  can  be  entirely  happy. 

"There  is  one  thing  you  can  do  for  me,"  said  Dolores, 
somewhere  in  the  fond  desultory  talk  that  follows  on 
Mrs.  Edgeworth's  second  disappearance.  "  You  remem- 
ber that  woman  we  were  speaking  of  just  now,  into  whose 
cottage  I  went  on  my  way  here — the  woman  who  directed 
you  to  this  cottage?  Mrs.  Burnet,  I  think,  you  said  her 
name  was?"  > 

"  Yes— Mrs.  Burnet." 

'•  Well,  she  was  kinder  to  me  than  I  can  say,  and  1 
should  like  to  do  her  a  kindness  in  return.  She  has  a 
daughter  who  loves  some  one,  and  by  whom  she  is  beloved; 
but  they  can  not  marry  because  of  an  obstacle  that  stands 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  319 

between  them.  It  is  not  so  bad  a  one  as  that  which 
separates  us,"  says  she,  raising  her  lustrous  eyes  to  his,  all 
heavy  with  sudden  tears;  "but  still  it  keeps  them  apart; 
and  I  would  lower  it  if  I  could/ 

"  What  is  the  obstacle,  my  love?"  asks  he  softly,  taking 
her  hand  in  both  his  own. 

"  Money.  They  have  none,  and  I  want  to  give  it  to 
them!  Lallie,  if  you  tell  her  of  it,  will  give  them  the  few 
hundreds  they  require,  for  my  sake." 

"  You  shall  tell  her  yourself,  and  you  shall  take  the 
money  yourself,  too,  to  Mrs.  Burnet's  daughter." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shall  not  be  in  a  position  to  do  it!  I  have 
separated  myself  from  you  all.  I  shall  never  go  horns 
again." 

"As  you  will  about  that,  darling.  Home,  after  all,  ig 
only  where  those  are  whom  we  love.  We  can  go  away 
together,  you  and  I.  I  have  some  money,  you  know," 
smiling,  and  we  will  see  if  we  can  not  cheat  starvation 
with  it  when  you  are  my  wife." 

"  Not  that  word,  Dick — any  other  word  but  that!  I 
shall  never  be  your  wife.  Do  not  mistake  me  about  this." 

"  What  a  little  tyrant!  Would  you  then  condemn  me 
to  the  miseries  of  an  eternal  bachelorhood?"  demands 
he  lightly,  with  an  assumption  of  gayety  he  is  in  reality 
far  from  feeling. 

There  is  a  pause;  and  then — 

"  As  for  that,"  says  she,  in  a  low  tone  and  with  averted 
face,  "  I  suppose  in  some  one  of  the  far-off  years  you  will 
hardly  remember  the  thoughts  of  to-day.  You  will  marry 
somebody  who  will  not  be  me."  A  heavy  sigh  breaks  from 
her.  "  Why  should  you  not?"  she  says.  "  Some  day,  when 
all  this  will  be  regarded  by  you  as  a  very  old  story,  you 
will  perhaps  love  and  be  loved  by  some  sweet  woman,  and 
let  her  be  to  you  what  I  can  never  be." 

Her  voice  fails  her;  but  bravely  she  conquers  the  mo- 
mentary emotion  that  has  arisen  out  of  her  heart's  agony, 
and  gently  raises  her  face  to  his. 

"  One  thing,  Dick,"  she  says  brokenly — "  one  thing, 
remember— she — she  will  not  love  you  more  faithfully 
than  I  do!" 

Here  he  would  have  spoken;  but  she  checks  him. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  she  murmurs;  "but  It 
if  useless.  Yes,  I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  know 


320  DICK'S  SWEETHEART. 

that  in  time  you  may  forget.  But  " — piteously,  breaking 
down  a  little — "  it  will  not  be  for  a  long  time,  will  it, 
Dick?" 

"I  hope  not,"  says  Bouverie,  steadily,  "us  it  will  be 
only  when  death  overtakes  me." 

In  spite  of  herself,  her  face  changes  at  this  passionate 
answer;  a  happier  gleam  illumines  it,  and  her  hand  trem- 
bles within  his. 

"  You  must  tell  Lallie  everything,"  she  says  presently; 
"  and,  when  we  are  again  separated,  be  good  to  her.  Yes, 
you  must  be  the  one  to  tell  her  all." 

"  You,  darling — not  me.  To  confess  the  truth  to  you, 
I  made  Mrs.  Edgeworth  promise  to  send  a  telegram  to 
Miss  Maturin  an  hour  ago;  that  will  bring  her  here  to- 
morrow, I  don't  doubt." 

"Ah!"  She  flushes  warmly,  and  her  hand  tightens 
upon  his;  then  the  warm  color  fades,  and  a  deathly  pal- 
lor takes  Us  place. 

Bouverie  watches  her  anxiously.  Has  his  intelligence 
been  too  much  for  her?  She  raises  her  head  presently, 
and  a  deep  sigh  escapes  her. 

"To  see  her  so  soon!"  she  whispers  faintly;  but  he  can 
see  that  the  light  of  a  great  content  is  making  her  face 
glad. 

"  So  be  prepared  for  a  scolding,"  he  says,  with  affected 
lightness.  "  I  warn  you  in  time  that  she  will  bring  you 
to  your  senses,  though  I  failed,  and  will  show  you  what  a 
little  sinner  you  have  been.  Do  you  think  she  will  coun- 
tenance your  hard-hearted  scheme  of  condemning  me  to 
a  life  of  single  wretchedness?" 

"  Ah,  do  not  make  things  too  hard  for  me!"  she  entreats 
mournfully.  "Let  us  talk  of  that  no  more;  believe  me,  I 
shall  never  be  nearer  to  you  than  I  am  to-day." 

She  lets  her  eyes  meet  his  in  sorrowful  earnestness,  and 
so  marks  the  shadow  that  at  last  he  has  found  it  impos- 
sible to  banish  from  his  face.  Upon  this  her  tortured 
heart  knows  yet  another  pang. 

"  Darling,"  she  says,  bending  toward  him,  "  do  not  look 
like  that!  Even  if  I  can  not  be  to  you  what  you  will,  still 
I  do  not  deny  to  you  that  I  feel  it  a  most  sweet  and  blessed 
thing  to  have  you  near  me  as  you  now  are.  In  all  the 
barren  hours  that  lie  before  ug  we  shall  at  least  have  this 
one  to  remember." 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  331 

To  make  her  any  rejoinder  just  then  seems  to  him  im- 
possible; yet  something  perhaps  he  would  have  said  but 
that  Mrs.  Edgeworth  reappearing  at  this  moment  with  a 
•mall  tray  holding  wine  and  biscuits,  puts  an  end  to  senti- 
mental phrases. 

She  comes  in  with  quite  a  little  bustle,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  has  put  the  lovers  to  rout  with  great  slaughter. 
Having  administered  her  wine  and  biscuits,  she  takes 
captive  the  younger  and  weaker  of  them,  and  bears  her 
on*  in  triumph  to  the  dungeon  upstairs,  where  she  tucks 
her  safely  into  her  bed,  in  spite  of  all  protests. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  laid  up  on  my  hands  again 
for  any  one — no,  not  if  he  was  as  handsome  again!"  she 
says  sternly,  beating  up  the  pillows  as  if  it  were  Dolores* 
own  self  she  was  in  the  act  of  punishing. 

"  Wake  me  early,"  begs  the  captive  feebly. 

"  If  I  hear  of  your  getting  out  from  between  these 
sheets  till  ten  o'clock  to-morrow,  I'll  know  the  reason 

why,"  retorts  the  jailer  fiercely. 

******* 

"  Which  I've  always  said  it,  and  I'll  stick  to  it,"  says 
Mrs.  Edgeworth  to  herself,  later  on,  when  she  hag  bidden 
Dick,  too,  good-night,  with  a  respectful  courtesy,  on  the 
threshold  of  his  door,  "  that  there's  nothing  like  having 
young  people  in  a  house;  and,  of  all  sorts,  give  me  lovers!" 
She  smiles  a  genial  smile.  "  But  Bouverie,  Bouverie?" 
She  ponders  awhile,  standing  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
passage,  candlestick  in  hand.  "  Well,"  she  says,  present- 
ly, as  though  relieved,  "  he's  not  like  the  old  baronet  in 
any  one  feature — that's  certain.  Let's  hope  he's  got 
nothing  to  do  with  that  family,  at  all  events!" 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

To  gaze  with  unseeing  eyes  upon  a  sun-smitten  land- 
BV  jpe  through  a  half-open  window  has  been  Dolores'  sole 
eo»  ipation  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes.  To  those  waiting 
in  ^nrful  expectancy  for  what  may  bring  them  certain  joy, 
tim»  drags  in  slothful  style. 

Hour  many  times  has  she  glanced  at  the  aged  clock 
that  siands  upright  in  the  hall,  as  if  defying  its  very  self? 
How  often  has  its  stolid  face  assured  her  that  sixty  seconds 
u 


8JW  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

run  to  every  minute,  and  not  one?    Its  incorruptibility 
prey*  upon  her. 

Not  even  Bouverie  is  here  to  whisper  comfort  and  con- 
vince her  that  she  is  not  impatient.  He  went  a  good  hour 
ago — oh,  what  an  interminable  hour! — to  the  nearest  rail- 
way station  to  meet  Miss  Maturin  and  bring  her  hither. 
But  has  she  come?  Will  she?  He  might  have  brought  a 
thousand  aunts  here  by  this  time!  Even  as  this  extraor- 
dinary reflection  occurs  to  her  a  swift  step  in  the  hall 
may  be  heard.  Dolores,  paling,  leaves  her  place  at  the 
window  and  advances  inward.  The  door  is  thrown  open 
hurriedly;  some  one  enters.  Yes,  it  is  Lallie — but  how 
strange,  how  altered!  She  is  white  as  death  itself,  and 
is  trembling  in  every  limb. 

"  Child — child — darling!"  she  murmurs,  brokenly. 

She  holds  out  her  arms,  and  in  a  moment  has  folded 
Dolores  within  them.  It  is  a  supreme  moment — her  lost 
treasure  has  been  regained! 

"Ah,  I  have  been  very  wrong!  I  have  done  what  I 
should  not — I  see  it  now!"  sobs  Dolores,  clinging  to  her. 

Oh,  the  blessedness  of  having  that  kind  bosom  near  her 
once  again  to  be  the  recipient  of  her  griefs!  All  last 
night  she  had  lain  awake,  preparing  herself  for  the  re- 
proaches, the  upbraidings  that  at  last  she  has  come  to  feel 
are  alone  her  due;  and  now — now! 

"  Not  a  word — not  a  word,  my  darling!"  cries  Miss 
Maturin,  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks.  "I  will 
not  have  you  accuse  yourself  in  any  way.  Oh,  to  think 
•f  all  you  have  suffered,  my  poor  little  pretty  one!" 

Such  sweet  condonement  of  her  fault,  such  generous 
forgetful  ness  of  all  the  miserable  hours  in  which  she, 
Miss  Maturin  herself,  had  so  suffered,  pierces  Dolores' 
heart.  With  a  low  but  vehement  sob,  she  throws  back 
her  head  and  gazes  into  Miss  Maturin's  eyes  with  almost 
a  tragic  meaning  in  her  own. 

"  Have  you  nothing  else  to  say,"  she  says— "no  angry 
word?  Until  I  saw  Dick  yesterday,  I  never  thought  how 
you  and  he  would  have  to  endure  as  well  as  I.  I  meant 
to  save  you  from  further  evil;  but  I  only  hurt,  and  grieved 
almost  to  death  the  two  for  whom  I  was  giving  up  my 
life.  I  have  been  selfish — cruel!  But  still — ah,  what  is 
it  I  must  do  now?"  cries  ghe,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  de- 
spair. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  323 

1  Oh,  hush,  my  child!"  whispers  Miss  Matnrin,  leading 
ker  to  a  couch. 

Drawing  the  girl  down  beside  her,  she  presses  the  little 
•oft  shiny  head  against  her  bosom  and  seeks  to  soothe 
her  with  tenderest  words. 

Not  in  vain.  The  voice  of  her  who  from  her  earliest 
infancy  has  ministered  to  her  wants  brings  balm  to  the 
wounded  soul  of  Dolores.  Growing  calmer  presently,  she 
gives  Miss  Maturin  a  condensed  account  of  her  flight,  her 
illness,  and  the  unspeakable  kindness  of  Mr.  Mildmay. 

"  I  must  thank  him!"  exclaims  Miss  Maturin,  rising 
hurriedly  from  her  seat  as  the  broken  voice  ceases. 

"  Come  with  me  then,  says  Dolores,  rising  too.  "  I 
long  to  make  you  known  to  him — my  friend — my  pre- 
server!" 

"  God  bless  him  wherever  he  goes!"  murmurs  Miss 
Maturin,  in  a  low  tone  full  of  intense  feeling. 

She  tightens  her  hand  upon  the  girl's,  as  it  lies  lovingly 
within  hers,  and  follows  her  across  the  tiny  hall  to  Mr. 
Mildmay's  study.  Here  it  was  he  had  received  Bouverie 
• — here  too  he  is  destined  to  meet  Dolores'  aunt. 

With  an  eager  step  Miss  Maturin  crosses  the  threshold 
— with  an  eager  tearful  smile  she  goes  forward  to  greet 
her  darling's  friend.  He  is  sitting  in  his  usual  chair  as 
she  and  Dolores  enter  the  room;  he  rises — their  eyes 
meet. 

There  is  a  smothered  ejaculation  from  somewhere,  and 
then  the  pleasant  smile  dies  from  Miss  Maturity's  face, 
the  light  from  her  eyes.  She  looks  as  though  she  had 
been  suddenly  touched  into  marble  by  some  invisible 
hand  as  she  stands  there  motionless,  her  gaze  immovably 
fixed  upon  Mr.  Mildmay  with  a  horror  in  it  indescribable. 

As  for  Mr.  Mildmay,  from  the  moment  his  glance  met 
hers  a  terrible  change  has  passed  over  him.  He  is  watch- 
ing her  with  a  strained  half-unbelieving  air,  his  face 
blanched,  his  hands  trembling.  In  his  whole  appearance 
there  is  a  curious  sense  of  fear,  vague  but  unmistakable. 

"  You!"  says  Miss  Maturin  at  last. 

Her  voice  is  not  loud,  there  is  no  violent  passion  in  it. 
It  is  indeed  low.  Almost  in  a  whisper  the  one  word  falla 
from  her,  yet  it  thrills  through  all  the  room. 

"  Lallie,"  says  Dolores,  touching  her  affrightedly,  aa 
though  to  demand  her  attention. 


324  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

Very  timidly  she  lays  her  hand  upon  her  arm;  but  fer 
the  first  time  in  all  her  life — and  the  last — Miss  Maturin 
repulses  her. 

"Have  you  been  living  under  this  man's  roof ?"  she 
asks,  in  a  voice  no  one  would  recognize  as  hers,  so  harsh 
is  it,  and  filled  with  so  condensed  a  hatred — the  hatred  of 
a  life-time.  "  You  have  eaten  of  his  bread!  Did  instinct 
tell  you  nothing,  girl?  Speak!" 

"Tell  me  what?"  asks  Dolores,  faintly.  "Oh,  Dick, 
come  here!"  as  Bouverie  walks  into  the  room  through  the 
glass  door  opening  into  the  garden.  "  There  is  something 
wrong,"  says  Dolores,  a  little  wildly.  "I  do  not  under- 
stand who — who — "  She  pauses,  and  points  breathlessly 
to  Mr.  Mildway.  "  Who  is  this?" 

"  Your  father!"  answers  Miss  Maturin,  in  a  cold, 
measured  tone. 

Bouverie  places  his  arm  round  the  half-sinking  girl. 
But  in  a  moment  she  rallies  from  her  weakness,  and 
rushes  forward  as  though  to  throw  herself  into  Mr.  Mild- 
may's  arms.  All  is  forgotten — the  shame,  the  disgrace 
of  her  birth;  she  remembers  only  that  her  father  stands 
before  her,  that  she  has  found  a  parent  in  the  man  who 
so  tenderly  shielded  her  when  the  world  frowned. 

"Stay,  Dolores!"  cries  Miss  Maturin,  seizing  her  as  she 
would  have  passed  by,  and  forcibly  detaining  her.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  all?" 

Mr.  Mild  may,  pale  as  death,  advances  a  step  or  two, 
and  raises  his  hand  as  though  to  command  a  hearing. 

"  Her  father!"  he  says,  with  difficulty.  "  What  strange 
tale  are  you  telling  her?  A  father?  I?  Nay,  through 
your  own  lips  I  condemn  you.  I  have  no  daugher.  She 
died  when — " 

"  She  lived!"  interrupts  Miss  Maturin,  sternly.  "  She 
stands  before  you  now;  but  I  adjure  you,  for  your  soul's 
sake,  to  keep  back  from  her,  to  break  all  connection  be- 
tween you!  Think  of  her  mother — think!" 

"  Have  mercy!"  says  Dolores,  with  soft,  but  passionate 
entreaty,  marking  how  the  old  man's  head  has  fallea 
forward  on  his  hands  at  the  mention  of  the  dead. 

"Did  he  show  mercy?"  demands  Miss  Maturin,  turn- 
ing almost  fiercely  upon  the  gentle  pleader.  "And  are 
yon  the  one  to  crave  pardon  for  him?  1  tell  you,  you 
should  rather  curse  him,"  cries  eho,  vehemently;  "  that 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  325 

man  who  stands  there  now  cowering  before  ym — the 
traitor  who  destroyed  the  one  who  loved  and  trusted  him! 
Corse  him,  girl — I  desire  yon!" 

"  Oh,  no,no,  no!"  says  Dolores,  shuddering  convulsively. 

"  The  bitterest  curse  you  could  lay  upon  him  would  be 
too  light,"  persists  the  elder  woman,  carried  away  by  * 
passion  grown  strong  and  irrepressible  by  the  suppression 
of  many  years.  "  Your  mother  he  ruined  body  and  soul' 
and  now  you  he  would  ruin  too.  Call  to  mind  all  he  ha* 
done  for  you — he,  your  father!  Has  he  not  killed  for  yon 
all  chance  of  love  and  hope  and  joy?  Truly" — with  a 
scornful  laugh — "he  has  been  your  best  friend!  Show 
him  no  mercy — none,"  cries  she,  with  increasing  horror,* 
"  but  call  for  Heaven's  vengeance  on  him,  lest  he  escape 
again!'* 

"'I  can  not,"  says  Dolores,  falling  upon  her  knees  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  "He  is  my  father." 

"  You  had  a  mother  too,"  Miss  Maturin  reminds  her, 
in  a  low  tone  full  of  concentrated  bitterness.  "  Is  her 
blighted  memory  nothing  to  you?  Am  I  alone  to  be  the 
one  to  remember  her  and  her  wrongs  this  day?" 

She  draws  back  from  the  kneeling  girl,  as  though  re- 
signing her,  and  raises  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

"Ah,  do  not  forsake  me,  Lallie!"  cries  Dolores,  piti- 
fully. "  My  heart  is  torn  in  twain!  He  has  been  very 
good  to  me,  and  see — see" — pointing  to  Mr.  Mildmay— 
"  how  pale  he  looks  and  how  despairing! " 

"  Who  is  this  child?"  asks  Mr.  Mildmay,  in  &  hollow 
voice,  indicating  Dolores. 

"  Yours,"  returns  his  adversary  icily. 

"You  told  me  she  was  dead,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay,  a 
Hidden  sharp  color  tinging  his  pale  features.  "  You 
swore  it.  How  am  I  to  believe  you  now?  " 

"  To  save  her  from  you  I  lied!  Don't  think  I  shrink 
from  this  avowal!  "  exclaims  she  eagerly.  "  Be  assured 
rather  that  I  glory  in  it.  I  would  have  perjured  myself 
nt  any  time  and  thought  it  a  good  deed,  if  by  so  doing  I 
could  have  saved  that  angel  there  from  the  contamination 
of  your  presence.  I  would  gladly  have  laid  her  in  her 
innocent  grave  rather  than  resign  her  to  your  care — you 
who  destroyed  her  mother!" 

"  Hear  me!"  says  Mr.  Mildmay,  coming  forward  with  a 
certain  dignity  in  hii  Bearing,  though  his  lips  are  trem- 


326  DiCi'8    SWEETHEAfcT. 

bling  and  his  face  is  ashen  gray.  "Is  secrecy  so  foul  a 
crime?  Her  mother,"  indicating  Dolores  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  gesture,  "  was  to  me  as  a  saint  from  Heaven! 
I  lived  but  for  her.  I  had  no  thought  that  I  wronged 
her  and  her  child  so  irretrievably  as  you  say  I  did  when  I 
induced  her  to  consent  to — a  private  marriage." 

"  Marriage!" 

The  word  breaks  from  Dolores  with  a  low  cry.  Her 
first  thought  is  for  her  lover.  She  runs  to  him.  straight 
into  his  arms,  and  nestles  there.  Not  for  a  moment  does 
she  doubt  the  blessed  truth.  Now  she  may  give  herself 
to  him  sans  peur  et  sans  reprocJie;  now  she  may  have  and 
hold  him  as  her  own  forever  and  forever! 

"How — what  is  this?  What  am  I  to  understand?" 
Mr.  Mildmay  is  stammering  feebly.  Then  all  at  once  the 
truth  flashes  across  his  mind,  and  he  nolors  deeply  as  a 
girl  might,  and  turns  his  wide  surprised  gaze  upon  Miss 
Maturin.  "  Can  it  be,  madam,"  he  asks,  in  a  trembling 
fcone  of  keenest  reproach,  "  that  you  have  so  wronged  in 
thought  that  sinless  creature  now  lying  in  her  grave?" 
All  thought  of  himself  is  forgotten. 

"  Sir,"  says  Miss  Maturin  in  a  broken  voice,  "  if  you 
can  prove  to  me  that  I  have  wronged  her,  I  shall  feel  that 
no  punishment  is  heavy  enough  for  me  to  bear;  but  I 
shall  know  also  that  you  have  made  me  the  happiest  being 
upon  earth!" 

For  all  answer  he  unlocks  a  drawer  near  him,  and  in 
silence  hands  a  folded  paper  to  her — a  paper  yellowed 
and  soiled  by  years,  but  unmistakably  a  marriage-certifi- 
cate. She  is  so  agitated,  her  eyes  are  so  dim  with  tears, 
that  she  can  be  sure  only  of  so  much.  All  is  blurred  and 
indistinct. 

"  There  was  a  marriage  then?" exclaims  Bouverie,  with 
strong  excitement,  laying  his  hand  upon  Mr.  Mildmay'B 
arm.  "  Speak!" 

"  What  is  there  to  say?"  asks  the  old  man,  be- 
wildered. "  We  were  married — yes.  That  paper  there 
will  tell  you  so.  It  was  my  fault  solely  that  we  hid  the 
marriage.  There  were  reasons — worldly  reasons — then 
that  suggested  the  necessity  for  concealment.  I  wish  now 
with  all  my  soul  that  such  reasons  had  not  found  weight 
With  me;  but  she  was  in  nowise  to  blame." 

"  la  it   true?    Can  it  be  J,rue,  after  all  these  years?" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART, 

gasps  Miss  Maturin,  piteously.  "  Oh,  all  those  miserable 
years!  But  even  now  I  fear  to  believe — "  A  shiver  passes 
over  her,  and  then  a  more  trustful  look  gleams  in  her  dark 
eyes.  She  turns  away  from  them — she  seems  to  have  for- 
gotten their  presence.  She  clasps  her  hands  with  a  fervid 
gesture.  "  She  is  saved!"  she  murmurs  brokenly.  "  My 
child,  my  beloved!" 

Dolores,  creeping  up  to  her,  slips  her  hand  timidly 
around  her  neck. 

"  Dear  Lallie."  she  whispers  softJy,  "  now  I  may  love 
my  father,  may  I  not?" 

With  a  return  of  the  old  graceful  elasticity  that  was  one 
of  her  many  charms,  she  moves  swiftly  across  the  room, 
and  throws  herself  into  her  father's  arms.  Tenderly  he 
embraces  her. 

"  Ah,"  she  says,  presently,  raising  her  head  and  smil- 
ing through  her  soft  dewy  eyes,  "  now  I  am  no  longer 
Dolores  Lome — I  am  Dolores  Mild  may." 

"  No,"  returns   her   father,  gravely — "  Dolores 
verie  /" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THERE  is  an  astonished  pause.  Dolores,  glancing  in- 
voluntarily at  her  lover,  blushes  warmly.  As  for  Bou- 
verie, he  laughs  aloud. 

"Dolores  Bouverie!"  be  says,  addressing  Mr.  Mildmay. 
"Not  quite  yet,  but  certainly  as  soon  as  ever  we  can 
manage  it!" 

"  No — at  this  present  moment,"  returns  the  old  man, 
quietly.  "  My  name  is  Bouverie.  I  have  reason  to  think, 
sir" — regarding  Dick  reflectively — "that  in  you  I  see  a 
nephew." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  err  a  little  there,"  says  Dick.  "  The 
only  uncle  I  ever  bad  fell  over  a  precipice  in  Switzerland, 
and  was  never  heard  of  after." 

"You  hear  of  him  now,"  says  Mr.  Mildmay.  "The 
fall  from  that  precipice  was  but  a  poor  affair  when  all  is 
told,  yet  it  served  my  purpose.  It  helped  me  to  bury 
myself  out  of  sight  of  a  world  that  had  grown  distasteful 
to  me.  When  I  picked  myself  off  the  ledge  of  the  rock 
upon  which  most  providentially  I  had  fallen,  and  found 
my  guides  had  disappeared,  no  d«ubt  in  the  full  certainty 


328  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

of  having  been  present  at  my  death,  I  determined  to  be 
dead  from  that  day  forward  so  far  as  my  people  were  con- 
cerned. I  took  another  name — the  name  you  know  me 
by — and  for  eighteen  years  I  have  lived  a  hermit's  life." 

"  But,  sir,  what  had  my — your  people  done  that  you 
should  so  blot  yourself  from  their  remembrance?"  asks 
the  young  man,  with  some  vehemence. 

"  They  were  part  of  an  unhappy  past — a  past  from 
which  I  have  never  been  able  to  dissever  myself.  But  for 
my  uncle's  whim,  that  would  have  driven  me  into  mar- 
riage with  a  woman  whom  I  abhoi'red  on  pain  of  being 
disinherited,  I  could  have  openly  married  this  child's 
mother" — laying  his  hand  upon  Dolores' shoulder,  who  is 
gazing  info  his  face  with  wide  expectant  eyes.  "  The 
title  would  by  law  come  to  me  in  course  of  time;  but  very 
little  of  the  property  was  entailed,  and  what  there  was  of  it 
would  be  of  small  use  to  me  in  the  keeping  up  of  the  old 
name.  He,  the  late  baronet,  was  my  guardian  as  well  as 
my  uncle,  and  I  was  his  presumed  heir." 

He  pauses,  as  though  overcome  by  some  vague  recollec- 
tions. 

"  Go  on!"  says  Miss  Maturin  nervously, 

"  He  pressed  upon  me  this  marriage  with  an  arrogant  heir- 
ess, until,  to  avoid  his  importunities,  I  left  my  house,  and, 
knapsack  at  my  back,  wandered  into  the  Northern  coun- 
ties. My  love  of  painting  drove  me  ever  onward  to  the 
bold  rocky  coasts  that  border  Scotland.  To  escape  further 
from  him  and  his  plan,  and  to  place  it  out  of  his  power 
to  persecute  me  with  letters  on  the  same  distasteful  sub- 
ject, I  changed  my  name  and  traveled  everywhere  through 
the  towns  and  villages  under  an  assumed  cognomen. 
So  traveling,  I  found  her — my  fate!  Of  that  I  need  say 
no  more.  I  loved  her,  and  she  loved  me.  We  cared  not 
for  consequences,  Yet  I  could  not  bring  myself  altogether 
to  disregard  the  chance  of  gaining  an  inheritance  that 
might  enable  me  to  give  to  the  woman  I  adored  all  those 
luxuries  that  go  so  far  to  sweeten  life.  I  confided  in  her; 
I  told  her  all;  I  described  to  her  the  hard,  narrow-minded, 
obstinate  old  man  who  was  seeking  to  force  me  into  a 
detested  bondage.  She  consented  to  fly  with  me,  to  sub- 
mit to  a  private  marriage,  to  give  herself  in  effect  as  ab- 
solutely to  me  as  anY  lover's  soul  could  desire.  I  rewarded 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  329 

her  with  all  I  had — the  ungrudging  devotion  of  my  whole 
heart!  Ah,  those  happy  days!" 

As  though  lost  in  recollection  of  the  time  when  youth- 
ful ecstasy  and  divine  rapture  alone  filled  his  days,  the  old 
man  ceases  speaking  and  gazes  with  rapt  eyes  upon  the 
faded  garden  outside. 

"Well,  father?"  says  Dolores,  touching  his  shoulder 
gently,  and  so  compelling  his  return  to  earth. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  must  finish,"  murmurs  he,  with  the  long- 
drawn  sigh  of  one  newly  awakened  from  a  pleasant  trance. 
*'  When  you,  my  child,  were  about  to  be  born,  your 
mother  grew  delicate,  She  pined  a  little,  and  at  last  I 
suggested  change  to  her.  She  grasped  at  the  thought, 
and  went  with  me  willingly  to  a  small  village  in  Brittany. 
Hardly  was  I  there  when  I  received  a  letter  from  our  faithful 
servant,  Mrs.  Edgeworth,  then  a  young  girl  and  my  wife's 
maid,  telling  me  of  my  uncle's  approaching  death,  and 
forwarding  to  me  letters  desiring  my  presence  at  his  bed- 
side. 

"How  could  I  go?  Your  mother" — all  through  he  has 
addressed  himself  to  Dolores — "comprehending  how  I 
suffered,  being  thus  torn  in  two  between  my  desire  to  be 
with  her  and  my  fear  of  losing  all  that  I  had  striven  so 
hard  to  retain,  urged  me  to  go  to  England  and  present 
myself  to  my  dying  uncle.  She  had  never  felt  better — 
she  declared  earnestly — than  she  now  felt,  and  why  should 
we  risk  losing  all  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  cowardly  fear! 
And  baby,  he — she  had  all  along  persuaded  herself  it  would 
be  a  boy — would  suffer  more  than  either  of  us  if  disinher- 
itance were  to  follow  on  my  refusal  to  visit  the  old  man's 
sick-bed. 

"I  went,  to  find  my  uncle  lying  sick,  nigh  unto  death, 
but  fully  alive  as  to  his  affairs.  He  seemed  to  find  pleas- 
ure in  my  presence,  and  from  day  to  day  kept  me  near 
him,  occupied  with  law-papers,  signing  my  name  to  this 
and  condemning  that,  and  so  on.  A  wearisome  waiting! 
The  days  grew  into  weeks;  and  at  last  there  came  a  time 
when  the  letters  from  my  wife  grew  fewer,  and  then 
ceased  altogether. 

"  A  sense  of  nervous  horror  overcame  me.  I  made 
some  wild  excuse  to  my  uncle,  and  left  England  again  to 
seek  the  town  in  Brittany  that  contained  for  me  all  that 
made  life  worth  having.  Alas,  it  no  longer  contained 


330  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

it!  I  arrived,  to  find  my  honse  left  desolate  unto  me. 
She — my  wife — was  dead — nay,  buried !  Every  hope  I  had 
was  quenched  within  that  hour.  I  no  longer  lived;  my 
being  sunk  into  the  grave  with  her,  there  to  find  the  only 
rest  it  has  ever  known  since — until  to-day!" 

Again  his  hand  seeks  Dolores',  and  rests  there. 

"  I  found  that  at  the  very  last  she  had  telegraphed  tc 
her  sister — not  so  much  in  fear  of  death  as  to  have  some 
woman  she  loved  near  her  during  the  hour  of  her  coming 
trial.  To  me  she  had  sent  no  message,  dreading  lest  she 
should  do  me  injury  with  the  churlish  old  man  by  draw- 
ing me  from  him  when  he  most  needed  me.  She  knew 
that  no  earthly  consideration  would  have  held  me  from  her 
then,  had  I  only  known!" 

His  voice  breaks,  and  it  is  some  momenta  before  he  can 
proceed. 

"She  was  gone  from  me — deadl  Nothing  was  left!  A 
child  had  been  born,  they  said;  but  a  strange  lady  had 
taken  it  away  with  her,  and  had  left  no  address  behind, 
no  name,  no  sign  by  which  a  clew  to  her  dwelling-place 
might  be  discovered.  But  that  she  was  English  was  be- 
yond all  doubt.  All  that  had  happened  then  became  clear 
to  me.  I  left  France,  and  sought — you!" 

Here  he  turns  his  eyes  fully  upon  Miss  Maturin,  who  is 
sitting  motionless,  scarce  breathing,  with  down-bent  head. 

"  You/'  continues  he,  his  voice  sinking  almost  to  a 
whisper,  "refused  to  see  me.  With  my  heart  freshly 
torn  and  bleeding  from  my  late  cruel,  incurable  wound, 
you  drove  me  from  your  door!  I  was  not  so  to  be  re- 
pulsed; I  returned  again  and  again,  always  .to  receive  the 
iame  imperturbable  reply.  I  demanded  news  of  my  child, 
of  that  last  frail  link  that  still  bound  me  to  the  sweet 
s.-iint  who  had  soared  so  far  above  me.  A  cold  abrupt 
message  came  to  me,  saying  the  child  was  dead!  What 
then  was  left  to  me?  1  broke  off  all  connection  with  this 
country  and  went  abroad. 

"  Who  shall  blame  me  if  there  I  courted  death  in  many 
A  form,  if  I  sought  thus  to  obtain  oblivion  from  the  griefs 
that  each  hour  seemed  to  make  more  keen?  Vainly  1 
endeavored  to  gain  the  peace  only  to  be  known  by  those 
who  have  deliberately  renounced  the  world  by  separating 
themselves  from  it.  Of  all  who  had  once  known  me,  to 
Mrs,  Edgeworth  alonej[  gave  my  confidence,  and  in  her  I 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART,  331 

was  not  mistaken;  she  has  been  to  me  a  true  and  \oyal 
friend  from  that  hour  until  now." 

He  ceases  speaking,  aa  though  half  unconsciously,  and 
sits  gazing  absently  into  space,  with  Dolores'  hand  still 
held  tightly  between  both  his  own.  Miss  Maturin,  with 
the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  rises  from  her  chair 
and  goes  up  to  him. 

"  I  have  indeed  misjudged  you,"  she  confesses,  brok- 
enly; "  I  have  wronged  her  too,  my  innocent  girl;  even 
when  she  lay  dead  within  my  arms,  I  wronged  her!  But 
her  gentle  spirit  has  forgiven  me  long  ere  this.  For  your 
forgiveness,  sir,  I  dare  not  ask!" 

"  You  kept  the  child  from  me,"  cries  he,  in  great  agi- 
tation; "in  that  thought  lies  the  deepest  sting!  All 
these  years  you  have  robbed  me  of  what  would  have  meant 
to  me  life  indeed — the  possession  of  a  treasure  such  as 
this!" 

Softly,  caressingly,  he  lays  his  hand  upon  Dolores* 
sunny  head  as  it  lies  upon  his  breast.  But  at  his  touch — 
or  is  it  at  his  words? — the  girl  starts  into  life. 

"  You  must  not  blame  Lallie,  she  says,  vehemently; 
"no  unkind  thing  must  be  said  to  her — remember  that!" 

She  shrinks  in  part  from  him,  and  holds  out  her  hands 
to  Miss  Maturin,  to  her  who  has  been  her  life's  mother, 
and,  who  can  never  now  be  supplanted  in  the  first  place  in 
her  affections. 

"She  kept  from  me  the  only  sunshine  that  could  have 
gladdened  my  sad  hours,"  says  Mr.  Mild  may — or  rather 
Sir  Richard  Bouverie — in  a  stern  tone — "  that  is  yourself!" 

"  Am  I  so  much  to  be  blamed?"  demands  Miss  Maturin, 
passionately,  stepping  back  a  little,  and  speaking  as  one 
might  who  is  addressing  an  imaginary  audience,  a  jury 
who  is  to  decide  upon  her  life  or  death.  "  What  could  I 
think?" 

"No  one  shall  blame  you,  Lallie,"  exclaims  the  girl, 
softly,  leaving  her  father's  embrace  to  run  to  Miss  Maturin 
and  fling  her  arms  lovingly  around  her — "  no  one,  whilst 
1  am  present!" 

"  It  was  such  a  cruel  mistake,"  says  Miss  Maturin,  sob- 
bing, but  holding  the  pretty  slight  form  eagerly  to  her 
breast — "  cruel  to  me  as  well  as  to  her!  Listen,  sir!"  she 
cries  again,  addressing  Sir  Richard.  "  When  I  found  my 
sister  dying — nay,  dead — there  was  upon  her  hand  no 


333  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

wedding-ring.  Like  a  flash  of  unalterable  truth  it  came 
to  me  that  whwt  I  had  dreaded  all  along  was  true.  Ah, 
what  terrible  hours  that  false  belief  has  given  me!  As  I 
have  already  said,  I  wronged  her,  and  for  iny  fault  I  have 
been  justly  punished.  Be  merciful  to  me  now,  I  beseech 
you!"  she  murmurs,  gently,  thinking  with  bitter  remem- 
brance upon  her  lifelong  grief,  upon  her  many  lost  hours, 
when  happiness  might  have  been  possible  to  her  but  for 
this  slur  upon  her  darling's  birth. 

"  The  ring!  It  must  have  been  stolen  then  from  her 
poor  hand!"  says  Sir  Richard,  with  pale  lips.  "  But" — 
turning  again  to  Miss  Maturiu — "  had  time  no  power  to 
soften  you?  Did  you  never  think  that  a  father  had  some 
right  in  his  child?" 

"  Believing  what  I  then  believed,  I  thought  a  total 
separation  from  all  things  connected  with  her  unholy 
birth  the  one  thing  to  be  desired.  I  took  her;  1  said  I 
would  be  a  mother  to  her,  in  place  of  that  poor  lost  one. 
To  her,"  cries  Miss  Maturin,  flinging  out  her  hands  toward 
Dolores,  "  I  leave  it  to  say  if  I  have  fulfilled  my  trust!" 

"Lallie!"  cries  the  girl,  pathetically,  trying  to  reach 
her;  but  Mis*  Maturiu  waves  her  back. 

"Nay,  satisfy  him;  do  me  justice!"  she  exclaims,  her 
Yoice  vibrating  with  emotion. 

"  I  will,"  murmurs  the  girl,  tenderly.  Then  she  turng 
to  her  father.  "  It  is  enough,"  she  says,  fervently,  "  to 
tell  you  that  in  all  the  years  I  have  spent  with  her  1  never 
once  remembered  that  I  was  motherless." 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  indeed  a  mother  to  your  child," 
interposes  Bouverie,  eagerly. 

Sir  Richard  starts  slightly  as  the  young  man  speaks. 
Perhaps  he  has  forgotten  his  presence;  now,  however,  he 
turns  to  him. 

"  You  see,"  he  says,  graciously,  "as  I  told  yon,  I  have 
to  da^  regained  not  only  a  daughter,  but  a  nephew!" 

"  A  nephew!"  The  young  man  repeats  his  words  vague- 
ly, as  though  absent  or  puzzled.  "  It  is  all  so  confus- 
ing," he  says,  breaking  off  with  a  curious  laugh,  but 
Siling  perceptibly.  "  To  think  that  you — you  should  be 
olores'  father!" 

Miss  Maturin,  who  has  been  scarcely  listening,  turns 
now  to  the  elder  man. 

"  If  you  are  Richard  Bouverie,"  she  says,  slowly,  aa 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  333 

though  following  out  a  train  of  troublesome  thought, 
"  why,  then,  you  are  the  elder  son;  to  you  the  baronetcy 
belongs — you  are  Sir  Richard !" 

"  So  it  might  be,"  returns  he  dreamily.  "  But  I  have 
given  up  the  world;  it  is  no  longer  anything  to  me;  and 
why  should  I  disturb  others?  A  title  has  long  since  ceased 
to  have  any  attraction  for  me." 

"  But,  now — now  that  you  have  a  daughter,"  cries  Miss 
Maturin,  eagerly,  "  your  child  surely  is  worthy  of  all 
thought!  You  must  rouse,  assert  yourself,  and  give 
yourself  to  the  world  again  under  your  right  name,  if  only 
for  her  sake — hers!  Come  forth,  I  tell  you,  from  your 
obscurity — it  is  your  duty — and  lift  the  cloud  that  hangs 
over  her  young  life!  You  must  claim  your  title,  your 
home,  your  position." 

Dolores  turns  upon  her  a  glance  of  agonized  reproach. 
As  for  Dick,  he  has  been  standing  quite  apart,  his  head 
lowered.  Perhaps  he  alone  has  quite  understood  what  a 
terrible  change  this  news  has  made  to  him.  From  being 
heir  to  a  large  property  he  has  suddenly  dwindled  into  a 
very  poor  young  man  indeed,  without  a  profession,  with- 
out a  hope  of  ever  rising  out  of  an  unenviable  mediocrity, 
and  with  a  title  that,  like  all  barren  honors,  will  ever 
hang  as  a  millstone  round  his  neck.  And  she,  his  cousin, 
will  be  heir  to  the  money  and  estates — very  little  of  either 
is  entailed — without  which  the  title  will  be  but  an  empty 
vaunt!  And  of  the  title  even  can  he  be  sure?  His  uncle 
may  marry  again.  Why  should  he  not?  And  Dolores — 
Dolores!  He  clinches  his  hands.  Poor  as  he  is,  they 
could  not  be  cruel  enough  to  take  her  from  him  now,  to 
look  for  a  higher  alliance  to  which  her  sweetness  and 
beauty  might  well  entitle  her,  to  take  her  from  his  very 
arms! 

"Dick,"  says  a  soft  little  voice — "Dick,  look  at  me!" 
She  steals  her  slender  fingei's  into  his,  and  compels  him 
to  return  her  tender  glance.  "  Dear  father,"  she  says, 
addressing  Sir  Richard  over  her  shoulder,  "  if  you  get  all, 
what  is  to  become  of  Dick?" 

"  Your  husband  will  be  my  son,"  returns  he  senten- 
tiously. 

"And — and  Lady  Bonverie?"  asks  the  girl  nervously. 

"Tush!"  says  Miss  Maturin  bitterly.     "One  in  this 


334  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

case  is  bound  to  go  to  the  wall;  who  is  fitter  to  be  sent 
there  than  she?" 

"  Ah,  poor  Lady  Bouverie!"  exclaims  Dolores,  a  strange 
quiver  in  her  voice.  Her  lips  grow  sad  with  grief. 
"  Must  she  suffer?"  All  remembrance  of  her  late  unhap- 
pineesand  the  cause  of  it  seem  obliterated  from  her  mind; 
she  can  see  only  Dick's  mother  in  direst  trouble,  torn  from, 
the  high  position  that  has  been  more  to  her  than  life  and 
its  affections.  She  grows  sorely  distressed;  her  eyes  run 
over  suddenly  with  bright  hot  tears. 

"  Surely  charity  never  faileth !"  murmurs  Miss  Matnrin; 
and  then  aloud — "  Come  here  to  me,  you  most  sweet 
angel!"  she  cries,  holding  out  her  arms  to  Dolores.  "  How 
could  any  evil  thought  dwell  in  the  same  place  with  you? 
For  your  dear  sake,  then,  we  will  give  that  cold-hearted 
woman  one  more  chance  of  redeeming  herself  from  the 
charge  of  utter  heartlessness;  but  enough  now.  You  are 
overstrung,  my  darling,  by  all  these  discoveries,  and  so  is 
your  father;  at  another  time  we  will  decide  upon  the  meas- 
ures to  be  pursued;  but,  for  to-day,  no  more.  Dick, 

take  her  into  the  fresh  air  for  a  little  while." 

******* 

But  Dick,  when  he  has  taken  her  there,  is  still  very  sad 
and  silent.  For  a  little  while  she  watches  him  furtively, 
and  then — 

"  Are  you  sorry  I  have  supplanted  you?"  she  asks,  her 
voice  vibrating  with  gentle  agitation. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  have  now  nothing  to  offer  you." 

"  Oh,  Dick,  are  you  going  to  tell  me  then  that  youf 
love  is  no  longer  mine?"  asks  she,  with  a  careful  pretense 
at  a  belief  in  her  own  accusation. 

"  Not  that — never  that!  But  everything  is  so  changed; 
you  have  all,  I  have  nothing." 

"  Well,  I  can't  see  it  in  that  light,"  exclaims  she,  with 
sudden  sprightliness.  "I  was  always  an  heiress,  Dick,  and 
you  had  always  a  title  in  perspective.  I  can't  see,  then, 
how  things  are  so  terribly  changed  as  you  would  make 
out." 

"  An  empty  title  is  of  small  account,"  says  Dick 
gloomily.  "It  seems  horribly  selfish  of  me  to  keep  you 
now  to  an  engagement  that  can  not  benefit  you  in  any 
way." 

"  fou  are  not  keeping  me." 


DICK'S  SWEETHEART.  335 

Dick  regards  her  with  a  sudden  fear. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  might  still  feel  yourself  bound 
to — " 

"  Not  in  the  least  bound.  I  feel  as  free  as  air!  "  says 
Miss  Bouverte,  blowing  a  little  dainty  kiss  from  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  to  Miss  Maturin,  who  appears  for  a  moment 
at  an  open  window  and  then  vanishes. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  exclaims  Dick,  turning 
upon  her  fiercely,  "  that  you  mean  to  throw  me  over  now?" 

Dolores  breaks  into  a  merry  heartfelt  laugh. 

"  Ah,  Dick,  you  were  never  meant  to  tread  the  boards," 
cries  she  saucily;  "  your  acting  is  not  up  to  the  mark  at 
all!  Why,  you  forgot  all  about  your  part  when  the  tragic 
moment  arrived!  Now  confess  that,  in  spite  of  all  your 
eilly  pretending,  you  would  not  give  me  up  for  the  world." 

"  Not  for  a  thousand  worlds!  "  returns  Dick,  laughing; 
and  after  that  there  is  never  any  further  mention  made  of 
a  desire  to  resign  her  to  any  wandering  duke  or  reigning 
prince  who,  coming  that  way,  may  chance  to  be  enraptured 
by  her  charms.  But,  just  before  they  go  in,  a  slight 
mention  is  made  of  another  topic  altogether. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  get  married  as  soon  as  ever  we 
can,"  says  Bouverie,  with  quite  a  business-like  air. 

"  Well — perhaps  so,"  returns  she,  hesitating  slightly. 

"I  shall  never  be  quite  happy  until  I  get  you  into  my 
own  possession,"  goes  on  Dick,  when  sundry  lover-like 
proceedings  have  been  gone  through.  "I  feel  now  al- 
ways as  if  I  dare  hardly  take  my  eyes  off  you,  lest  I  should 
lose  you  again.  Even  when  yon  are  my  wife,  I  know  I 
shall  never  let  you  out  of  my  sight." 

"  Do  you  hope  I  shall  run  away  from  you  then?"  asks 
she,  pinching  his  ear.  "  Are  you  counting  upon  that  as 
a  sure  way  of  getting  rid  of  me?  Don't.  There  isn't  a 
chance  for  you  there.  I  shall  stay  with  yon  just  as  long 
as  you  live." 

"  I  wish  I  could  live  forever,"  says  Dick. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"  A  LETTER  from  that  woman  at  Greylands,"  sneers 
Lady  Bouverie,  throwing  the  missive  in  question,  with  a 
contemptuous  gesture,  to  her  younger  son. 

"  She  has  returned  then?" 


336  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"So  it  seems." 

"  Any  news  of — "  He  runs  his  eyes  lightly  over  the 
paper.  "  *  To  go  toGreylands  as  soon  as  you  can  conven- 
iently manage' — odd — eh?  I  hope  she  has  not  got  to 
communicate  to  you  the  news  of  that  poor  child's  death." 

"  I  hope  she  has,"  returns  his  mother  coldly;  "  though 
why  to  me?  What  have  I  to  do  with  the  living  or  dying 
of  her  disreputable  relatives?" 

"  On  Dick's  account." 

"Richard  and  I  have  no  interest  in  common,"  returns 
•he  icily.  "  He  has  chosen  to  renounce  me  and  join  him- 
self to  those  whom  it  would  be  a  disgrace  even  to  know. 
Let  him  abide  by  his  choice." 

"  When  a  man  is  in  love,"  begins  Bruno  earnestly, 
"  he  hardly  calculates  the  whys  and  wherefores.  You 
should  remember  that  he — " 

"  I  remember  nothing,  except  that  he  has  elected  to 
cast  in  his  lot  with  people  who  have  willfully  withdrawn 
his  allegiance  from  his  mother.  But" — with  a  touch  of 
anger — "  that  is  not  the  subject  in  hand." 

"  No.     You  will  go  to  Greylands?" 

"Why  should  I?  What  an  impertinence,  her  summon- 
ing me  to  her  presence!"  She  rises,  as  though  involun- 
tarily, to  her  feet,  and  her  fingers  close  with  a  remarkable 
clinch  upon  a  fold  of  her  gown.  She  stands  thus  looking 
into  space  for  a  moment  or  so,  and  then  her  humor 
phanges.  "  After  all,"  she  says  reflectively,  "  I  think  I 
shall  go.  Her  asking  me  to  visit  her  at  Greylands  is 
hardly  so  supreme  an  insolence  as  would  be  her  attempt- 
ing to  force  an  entrance  here  into  my  own  house.  Ad- 
venturess that  she  is,  has  she  tired,  then,  of  my  son?  Is 
he  no  longer  of  any  use  to  her  now  that  the  girl  is  dead?" 

"  Her  death  is  a  mere  supposition  on  my  part,"  says 
Bruno  quickly,  a  shade  of  intensest  feeling  crossing  his 
face. 

Br.t  Lady  Bouverie  is  not  attending  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  go,"  she  says,  "  if  only  to  let  her  know 
how  thoroughly  en  rapport  I  am  with  her  maneuvers." 

"If  anything  has  happened  to  Dolores,  it  will  be* 
death-blow  to  her,"  says  Bruno,  rising  from  his  seat  in 
some  agitation.  "I  implore  you  to  be  gentle  with  her." 

Lady  Bouverie  shuts  up  her  fan  with  a  vicious  little 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  83? 

•lick,  and  lets  a  curious  smile  widen  her  lips  for  a 
moment. 

'•  And  now  too,"  goes  on  Bruno  nervously — "  now — 
when  Dick  must  be  in  such  sore  grief,  if  my  surmise 
prove  correct — will  be  the  time  to  regain  his  affection. 
A  little  kindly  word,  a  word  of  sympathy  dropped  when 
the  heart  is  wounded,  does  more  good  than — " 

"  Is  it  a  prescription?"  asks  his  mother,  with  a  little 
cruel  laugh.  "  My  dear  Bruno,  you  should  have  been  an 
open-air  preacher!  But,  even  if  you  do  mean  to  coach 
for  that  lofty  position,  I  must  beg  that  at  least  you  will 
be  good  enough  not  to  practice  your  maiden  efforts  at 
goody-goody  eloquence  upon  me.  Spare  me  at  least 
that!" 

"I  was  only  suggesting  to  you  a  proper  line  of  con- 
duct," says  Bruno,  coldly.  He  speaks  now  without  an 
attempt  at  the  conciliatory  manner  of  a  moment  since. 
A  vague  affection  for  her,  mingled  with  a  sense  of  duty, 
has  held  him  true  to  her  up  to  this.  There  has  been  no 
dependence  upon  her,  as  he  became  heir  to  a  considerable 
property  on  the  death  of  a  distant  cousin  almost  as  he 
entered  upon  his  twenty-second  year. 

"Do  you  imagine  I  want  to  win  back  Richard?"  de- 
mands his  mother,  angrily.  "Understand  me  now  once 
for  all.  I  have  done  with  him.  I  no  longer  regard  him 
as  a  son.  From  his  earliest  infancy  he  was  antagonistic 
to  me — now  he  is  insufferable!"  says  she,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone  that  is  full  of  a  concentrated  and  most 
bitter  dislike. 

"  Still,  he  is  your  son — your  child." 

"  And  '  blood  is  thicker  than  water,'  "  interrupts  she, 
contemptuously;  "  that  is  what  you  would  quote  to  me. 
So  it  is.  It  is  capable  of  holding  more  hatred,  more 
accumulated  contempt,  than  any  such  weak  thing  as 
water!  Cease  your  support  of  Richard;  it  carries  no 
weight  with  it.  Let  him  cling  to  the  woman  who,  with 
the  aid  of  a  pretty,  base-born  face,  enticed  him  from  his 
allegiano*  to  his  mother!"  She  makes  a  movement  toward 
the  bell,  and  then  checks  herself.  "  Order  the  carriage!" 
she  says,  peremptorily,  as  though  longing  to  drive  him 
from  her  presence  on  any  pretext. 

"Bless  my  stars,  what  a  volcano  she  is!"  mutters 
Bruno,  with  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  as  He  quits  the  room. 


338  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

As  Lady  Bouverie  enters  the  morning-room  at  Grey- 
lands,  Miss  Maturin  rises  to  receive  her.  In  doing  so  she 
happens  to  pull  one  of  the  lace  curtains  of  the  upper  vrin- 
dow  a  little  aside,  so  that  Lady  Bouverie's  sharp  eyes  sud- 
denly become  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  man  who  is 
walking,  with  solemn  tread  and  slow,  up  and  down  upon 
the  balcony  outside.  The  curtain  has  fallen  back  into  its 
usual  folds  before  she  has  gained  sufficient  knowledge  of 
the  figure  to  know  if  it  be  friend  or  foe.  But  of  one  thing 
she  assures  herself — it  is  not  Kichard. 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me?"  she  says  to  Miss  Matu- 
rin, when  she  has  made  her  the  slightest  and  most  distant 
salutation. 

"  Yes — about  my  niece — about  Dolores." 

"  Ah  1"  says  Lady  Bouverie. 

By  an  insolent  uplifting  of  her  brows  she  gives  Miss 
Maturin  to  understand  that  the  proposing  such  a  subject 
to  her  is  almost  an  insult. 

"  There  have  been  many  and  great  changes  since  last  I 
saw  you.  We  have  discovered  her  father,"  goes  on  Miss 
Maturin,  with  a  painful  effort.  She  would  have  liked  to 
say  more,  but  words  fail  her.  She  grows  almost  dumb  in 
the  presence  of  this  cold  haughty  woman,  as  she  thinks  on 
what  the  disclosure  of  her  secret  will  mean  to  her. 

"  I  really  fail  to  see  why  I  should  be  expected  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  discovery  of  that  very  disreputable  per- 
son," says  Lady  Bouverie,  with  icy  distinctness. 

"  It  makes  a  difference — "  begins  Miss  Maturin. 

"  A  sorry  one,"  interrupts  Lady  Bouverie.  "  So  far  as 
I  can  judge  about  such  an  unpleasant  affair,  I  should  say 
that  the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  so  disgraceful  a  parent 
would  be  but  another  shame  to  hang  round  the  neck  of 
that  unfortunate  jgirl  your  niece." 

"  He  will  not  shame  her,"  says  Miss  Maturin  in  a  low 
voice,  her  eyes  on  the  ground, 

"  I  merely,"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  "  gave  you  my  opin- 
ion," indifferently  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "  I  did  not 
expect  you  to  think  with  me.  Of  course  it  is  disagreeable 
mixing  one's  self  up  with  a  low  affair  of  this  kind,  even  in 
the  most  delicate  way;  but  when  you  seemed  in  such  want 
of  advice,  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  waive  a  point  or  two  and 
let  you  have  it."  She  half  rises  from  her  seat.  "Any- 
thing else?"  she  asks,  in  a  tone  of  ineffable  impertinence. 


DICK'S  SWEETHEART.  339 

"  One  moment,"  says  Miss  Maturin.  "  I  have  said  there 
will  be  no  shame  attached  to  her  through  her  father.  1 
repeat  it  now.  Many  things  have  come  to  light — beyond 
and  above  everything  the  fact  that  my  sister  was  married 
to  the  man  who  loved  her.  Dolores  is  honorably  born." 

"  Yes?"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  in  the  polite  tone  of  one 
who  is  inexpressibly  bored.  She  is  still  standing,  as 
though  eager  to  grasp  at  a  decent  chance  of  taking  her 
departure.  "  Well?" 

The  word  is  a  question.  The  manner  repudiates  the 
word  altogether,  and  gives  Miss  Maturin  to  understand 
that  she  hopes  sincerely  she  will  not  answer  it.  But  Miss 
Maturin  declines  to  notice  her  manner. 

"Well,"  she  repeats  firmly,  "as  things  are  now  so 
altered,  as  Dolores  is  proved  to  be  of  birth  honest  as  your 
own,  I  have  asked  you  to  come  here,  to  know  if  you  will 
not  take  pity  upon  her  and  upon  your  son,  and  sanction 
an  engagement  between  them." 

"  Why  should  I  sanction  it?" 

"  Because  of  their  love,"  says  Miss  Maturin  in  trem- 
bling tone. 

"  You  must  be  mad,"  declares  Lady  Bouverie,  in  a  low 
measured  tone,  "  even  to  dream  of  such  a  successful  end- 
ing to  your  scandal!  To  give  consent  to  the  marriage  of 
my  son  to  a  girl  whose  name  has  been  a  by-word  in  the 
neighborhood,  who  has  indeed  been  held  up  to  contempt 
by  the  entire  county,  whose  father  doubtless  is  a  man  of 
such  obscure  origin  that  you  shrunk  from  associating  her 
with  him,  and  held  him  aloof  until  circumstances  com- 
pelled you  to  produce  him,  if  only  to  save  a  deeper  dis- 
grace! No!  Bather  first  would  I  see  my  son  within  his 
grave!" 

"  Listen,  madam — M 

"I  will  not!  You  may  cajole  him  into  marrying  her— 
that  I  can  not  prevent.  You  have  been,  so  far,  so  success- 
ful in  rendering  him  undutiful  to  his  parents  that  I  can 
well  believe  your  genius  for  intrigue  will  enable  you  to 
carry  him  that  step  further;  but  my  consent  to  this  most* 
iniquitous  match  you  shall  never  have!" 

"You  distinctly  decline,  then,  to  befriend  your  son  in 
this  matter?"  asks  Miss  Maturin  calmly,  who  has  given 
no  acknowledgment  of  the  insults  offered  her  save  the 
growth  of  a  sudden  caller  that  has  spread  from  cheek  to 


340  DICK'S    SWEETHEART, 

broir.  "  Think,  madam,  before  it  is  too  late!  Clemency, 
even  at  the  last  moment,  would  be  accepted,  would  re- 
store the  former  relations  existing  between  you." 

As  though  a  shadow  has  fallen  upon  her.  Lady  Bou- 
verie  becomes  aware  that  the  silent  figure  outside  upon 
the  balcony  has  here  come  to  a  stand-still  near  the  open 
window.  Is  he  listening?  Can  it  Richard,  after  all? 
The  evil  spirit  within  rises  high  at  the  thought.  If  he  is 
there,  let  him  take  her  answer. 

"  I  think  you  mistake  this  affair,"  she  says,  with  a 
alight  smile  full  of  contemptuous  scorn.  "  I  am  surely 
not  the  one  to  take  the  initiative  in  it.  A  rebellious  son 
— such  as  you  have  made  Richard — should  be  taught  to 
crawl  to  my  knees" — pointing  to  her  feet  with  lingers 
tremulous  with  passion — "  before  I  would  grant  him  par- 
don! And,  as  to  the  clemency  you  speak  of,  why  should 
I  so  wrong  him  as  to  show  it?  I  consider  a  marriage  with 
the  girl  you  call  your  niece  would  be  the  ruin  of  any  man. 
I  hope  I  have  made  myself  quice  clear?" 

"Quite  clear,"  says  Miss  Maturin. 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  world  is  saying  of  your  niece," 
goes  on  Lady  Bouverie,  turning  upon  her  adversary  with 
the  first  touch  of  open  anger  and  triumph  she  has  as  yet 
shown — "  of  a  girl  who  was  bold  enough  to  quit  the 
shelter  of  her  home  and  wander  alone  unguarded  through 
the  streets  of  London?  Have  you  heard?  Truly  her  bad 
blood  is  betraying  itself." 

"  There  is  no  bad  blood,"  begins  Miss  Maturm  faintly; 
but  the  angry  woman  will  not  listen  to  her. 

"Find  consolation  in  nothing  if  you  will!"  she  says, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "  But,  pray  tell  me,  has  she  satisfied 
you  as  to  where  and  how  she  spent  her  time  from  the 
hour  she  left  you  until  she  chose  to  be  discovered  again? 
A  month  is  a  long  time.  A  month  in  London,  with  no 
possible  Means  of  support — decent  means — is  an  incon- 
veniently lengthy  period  to  spend  incognita." 

"May  Heaven  forgive  you!"  says  Miss  Maturin,  very 
•lowly  and  very  solemnly.  "  As  yet  I  can  not.  In  the 
evening  of  the  day  my  poor  child  left  my  home — driven 
into  exile  by  your  taunts — she  found  a  resting-place  be- 
neath her  father's  roof." 

"Ah,  sol  Then  she  knew  of  his  existence,  in  spite  of 
all  we  have  been  so  carefully  taught  to  the  contrary?  J 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  341 

must  compliment  her  upon  her  diplomatic  powers.  T« 
be  so  young,  yet  so  skilled  in  the  art  of  deception  deserves 
a  public  recognition." 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  exclaims  Miss  Maturin,  putting  up  her 
hands  as  though  to  ward  off  from  herself  the  odious  sus- 
picions of  the  other.  "  She  knew  nothing.  We  all  be- 
lieved him  dead.  It  was  the  care  of  a  most  merciful 
Providence — who  never  fails  us  in  our  need — that  drove 
her  into  his  arms.  I  entreat  you  not  to  wrong  her  so! 
She  is  as  a  very  angel  of  goodness;  deception  is  unknown 
to  her.  The  discovery  of  her  father  was  almost  a  mir- 
acle." 

"  Miracles  nowadays  are  somewhat  out  of  fashion,"  sayi 
Lady  Bouverie,  with  a  cold  smile. 

*'  That  may  be;  but  I  beg  you  to  listen  to  what  I  have 
now  to  tell  you  about  Dolores." 

"  Ah,  spare  me!"  exclaims  she  insolently,  raising  her 
head  and  drawing  back  a  little,  as  though  imploring  Miss 
Maturin  not  to  subject  her  to  a  certain  boredom.  "I 
have  already  listened  to  so  many  details  of  the— er — re- 
markable history  of  your  niece's  life  that  I  must  really 
beg  you  to  keep  anything  further  from  me.  You  must 
not  think  me  rude.  I  assure  you  I  feel  myself  quite  un- 
equal to  the  comprehending  of  any  more  horrors.  I  am 
far  from  strong.  Such  coarse  allusions  to  the  vices  of 
the  lower  classes  are  very  distressing." 

"  I  fear  you  will  have  to  listen  to  me  whether  you  will 
or  no,"  says  Miss  Maturin  coldly.  "  Her  father — " 

"  Of  him  I  will  not  hear!"  exclaims  Lady  Bouverie, 
biting  her  lip  and  growing  white  with  indignation,  f* I 
shall  not  submit  to  insult.  I  confess  I  was  not  prepared 
for  insolence  when  I  foolishly  decided  upon  acceding  to 
your  wish  to  see  me  here  to  day." 

"  Nevertheless"  the  truth  must  be  told  to  yon,"  says  Wist, 
Maturin,  unmoved.  "  Hear  it  now,  I  advise  you — " 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  that  at  this  instant  the 
door  is  thrown  open,  and  Dick,  with  Dolores,  enters  the 
room. 

"I  have  told  your  mother  all — all  but  the  very  last^ 
Dick,"  cries  Miss  Maturin,  with  vehement  emotion.  "  Bat 
she  will  not  hear  me.  Sneak  to  her,  you." 

"  Mother,"  exclaims  Bouveric,  advancing  toward  her, 


343  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

•'for  the  last  time  I  entreat  you  to  receive  Dolores  as 
your  daughter." 

"And  for  the  last  time,  as  I  hope,"  returns  she  bit- 
terly, "  I  refuse!" 

"  I  tell  you — I  warn  you  you  will  repent  for  it  forever 
if  you  now  persist  in  your  decision,"  says  Bouverie  sternly. 
"  I  give  you  one  more  chance;  I  again  ask  you  to  listen 
to  her  pleading  and  mine." 

"Ah,  madam!"  murmurs  Dolores,  drawing  near  to 
her,  her  soft  eyes,  suffused  with  tears,  fixed  longingly 
upon  the  remorseless  features  before  her.  Her  appeal  is 
almost  a  sigh — it  is  so  low,  so  timid;  but  her  glance  is 
eloquence  itself. 

"  I  still  refuse!"  says  Lady  Bouverie,  disdainfully  waving 
the  girl  back  from  her,  as  though  fearing  contamination 
from  her  gentle  touch.  "  Nay,  more,"  she  exclaims,  sud- 
denly facing  Dick — "  I  refuse  to  acknowledge  you  any 
longer  as  my  son.  I  discard  you!"  She  pauses  to  look  at 
him  with  flashing  eyes.  "  Go,"  she  continues,  in  a  stifled 
tone,  "  and  connect  yourself  with  these  people  who  are 
without  shame  as  they  are  without  merit!" 

The  young  man  turning  white  with  anger,  steps  back 
from  her  and  involuntarily  places  his  arm  round  the 
shrinking  form  of  Dolores.  Indignation  renders  him 
dumb.  He  appeals  to  Miss  Maturin  with  his  eyes.  By 
an  adroit  movement  she  intercepts  Lady  Bouverie's  ad- 
vance to  the  door. 

"  Since  all  entreaty  has  failed,"  she  says,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  hear  the  worst.  Dolores'  father  is — " 

She  hesitates — some  sudden  emotion  checks  her  utter- 
ance— and,  before  she  can  recover  herself,  the  man  who 
has  been  walking  up  and  down  upon  the  balcony  outside 
enters  the  room.  He  parts  the  lace  curtains  with  both 
hands  and  stands  motionless,  looking  fixedly  upon  Lady 
Boaverte! 

"  Richard !"  A  sharp  cry  comes  from  her  lips.  "  Rich- 
ard Bouverie!"  The  words  die  from  her,  a  ghastly  pallor 
overspreads  her  face,  she  clings  to  the  nearest  chair  as  if 
for  support.  It  is  she  who  has  concluded  Miss  Maturiu'a 
speech  and  declared  aloud  Dolores'  parentage. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  said  Richard  Bouverie. 

"That  story  about  .Switzerland,  then,  was  feigned — it 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  $48 

was  a  mere  canard?'  It  is  with  difficulty  ghe  forces  these 
words  from  between  her  white  lips. 

"  Yes,"  returns  he  again.  She  looks  so  haggard,  so  ut- 
terly discomfited  that  lie  finds  it  impossible  to  add  to  her 
dismay,  to  reproach  her  in  any  way. 

Something  in  the  silence,  in  the  lowered  faces  around 
/her,  touches  her  arrogant  spirit  and  rouses  it  to  fury. 
(Throwing  up  her  head  with  a  haughty  gesture,  she  turns 
'her  gaze  full  upon  her  son. 

"  So,"  she  says,  with  a  low  insulting  laugh,  "you  have 
secured  yourself,  I  see.  The  ruin  of  your  family  wfll  not 
touch  you.  The  world  will  deem  you  cleverl" 

"My  world  is  here!"  returns  the  young  man,  in  a  tone 
as  haughty  as  her  own,  taking  Dolores'  hand  in  his.  "I 
do  not  fear  its  verdict.  And,  as  for  that  other  world 
of  which  you  speak,  from  it  too  I  fear  nothing.  It  knows 
how  I  loved  and  sought  Dolores  when  sorrow  was  her  only 
portion  as  dearly  as  I  love  and  seek  her  now,  when  no 
cloud  rests  upon  her  life!" 

"Still  I  congratalate  you!"  says  his  mother  with  a  bit- 
ter smile.  She  looks  steadily  round  upon  them  all  until 
her  glance  falls  upon  Miss  Maturin;  there  it  rests.  "  You 
have,  I  presume,  no  other  dramatic  points  to  make?"  she 
says,  with  a  supercilious  smile.  "I  have  perhaps  your 
kind  permission  to  retire?" 

"  Lady  Bouverie,  do  not  leave  us  like  this!"  exclaims 
Dolores,  starting  forward  with  hands  tightly  clasped  and 
soft  eyes  full  of  tears.  "  Consider,  I  beseech  you.  Ah, 
can  nothing  be  done?  If  I  could  only  think  of  some- 
thing that  would  have  power  to  make  you  love  me!" 

"  As  for  yon,  Richard,"  says  Lady  Boaverie,  turning  to 
her  brother-in-law  and  speaking  as  calmly  as  though  the 
girl's  impassioned  appeal  had  been  unheard  by  her,  "1 
suppose  you  will  let  your  brother  hear  from  yourself  of 
your  strange  resuscitation?" 

"My  daughter  spoke  to  you,"  says  Sir  Richard  sternly. 

"Did  she?     I  did  not  hear  her,"  returns  she  stonily. 

Dolores  has  fallen  back  sobbing  into  Miss  Maturin'a 
arms.  All  her  innocent  efforts  have  been  repulsed — mosC 
cruelly  slighted.  Lady  Bouverie  moves  toward  the  door, 
gains  it,  and  passes  through  it  to  the  anteroom  ontside. 
Already  she  must  hart  nearly  traversed  the  long  halls, 


344  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

must  now  be  near  the  open  door,  will  soon  have  crossed 
the  threshold. 

"  Oh,  father,  follow  her!"  cries  Dolores  frantically. 
"Do  not  let  her  go  alone!  Assure  her  that  we  are  all  her 
friends,  if  she  will  have  it  so.  and  not  her  enemies!  Tell 
her  you  will  divide  everything  with  her!  Ah,  it  is  hor- 
rible to  think  that  she  should  lose  all!  Go — go  to  her!" 
she  entreats,  sobbing  wildly. 

Sir  Eichard  leaves  the  room. 

"  Oh,  tender  heart!"  murmurs  Miss  Maturin,  bending 
over  the  little  trembling  figure  in  her  arms. 


SOFTLY  blows  the  sweet  September  wind,  although  the 
end  of  this  fair  month  is  nearly  reached,  and  chilly  Octo- 
ber lies  crouching  on  the  confines  of  it. 

The  decline  and  fall  of  Lady  Bouverie,  the  ascent  and 
rise  of  Dolores,  have  been  received  with  widely  different 
feelings  by  the  many  in  Dead  marsh  and  the  surrounding 
country.  But  Audrey  Ponsonby  at  least  is  on  the  win- 
ning side. 

She  had  gone  up  to  Greylands  the  moment  she  heard  of 
Dolores'  return,  knowing  nothing  of  the  happy  change 
in  her  fortune,  and  had  taken  the  girl  into  her  arms  and 
kissed  her  with  a  warmth  that  had  something  of  solemnity 
in  it.  She  had  said  little,  but  there  was  a  light  in  her 
great  somber  eyes  that  convinced  Dolores  forever  of  the 
reality  of  the  affection  she  had  brought  to  life  within  her 
breast. 

Dolores  had  kissed  her  back  again,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  and  then  the  great  news  was  whispered  to  her.  It 
was  wonderful,  romantic!  So  Lady  Bouverie  was  not 
Lady  Bouverie,  after  all!  And  Dolores — Dolores,  the 
despised  one — was  to  take  her  place!  The  poetical  justice 
of  it  was  complete!  Miss  Ponsonby  hurried  home  to  carry 
the  astounding  intelligence  to  "  dad,"  Dolores  standing 
on  the  stone  steps  of  the  hall  door  to  wave  a  last  farewell 
to  her  as  she  went  down  the  avenue.  Never  afterward 
did  she  forget  how  Audrey  had  been  the  very  first  to  come 
to  her,  while  still  believing  in  the  cruel  tale  that  had  fora 
little  time  cast  her  young  life  into  shadow. 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  345 

"Did  you  ever  hear  anything  more  enchanting,  dad?" 
cries  Miss  Ponsonby,  when  she  tells  the  story  in  turn  to 
her  father.  "  It  has  all  the  sublime  satisfaction  of  a  fairy- 
tale. To  think  that  her  crest  should  be  lowered!" 

"Hush,  my  dear!  Remember,  it  isyouraunt  of  whom 
you  are  speaking,  over  whom  indeed  you  are,  as  I  might 
say,  exulting." 

"  *  Exulting'  is  the  word,"  Miss  Ponsonby  says,  laugh- 
ing. "To  have  her  taken  down  a  peg  or  two — it  is  de- 
licious! No  dinner  for  me  to-day,  I  thank  you,  dad.  I 
have,  I  consider,  dined  most  luxuriously  off  her  discomfit- 
ure." 

"  My  dear,  you  should  recollect.  It  is  hardly  Christian 
—eh?" 

"  Therefore  you  are  the  more  bound  to  admire  it,  if  '  it ' 
means  my  appreciation  of  madam's  downfall.  Anything 
Pagan,  1  know,  enlists  your  sympathies  at  once.  Witness 
all  these  musty  old  tomes  over  which  you  are  perpetually 
poring.  But  the  truth  now,  dad!" — seating  herself  on  his 
knee  and  turning  up  his  chin  with  her  hand.  "  I  chal- 
lenge you!  Is  there  not  something  soothing  to  the  spirit 
in  my  news?  Ah,  say  there  is,  or  I  sha'n't  half  enjoy  it!" 

"Well,  she  certainly  was  aggravating  in  many  ways!" 
confesses  the  indulgent  "dad."  "But  yet,  my  dear,  we 
should  not  openly  rejoice  over — " 

"  Openly — no!  But  in  the  bosom  of  one's  large  fam- 
ily!" says  Miss  Ponsonby.  Then  she  pats  her  chest  light- 
ly. "  Here  it  is,"  she  says.  "I'm  glad,  do  you  know, 
that  I'm  all  the  family.  I  should  have  been  jealous  of 
any  companion  in  your  love." 

Mrs.  Wemyss,  too,  is  glad  at  the  girl's  return,  though 
somewhat  harassed  by  Bruno,  who  shows  himself  very 
low-spirited  over  his  mother's  changed  prospects  when, 
first  the  discovery  of  Sir  Richard's  existence  is  made 
known. 

But  this  soon  ceases.  Sir  Richard  and  his  brother 
meet.  There  is  a  very  joyful  recognition  between  them, 
in  spite  of  all  things;  and  then  presently  it  becomes 
known  that  "the  late"  Sir  George  and  his  wife  are  to 
take  possession  of  a  house  belonging  to  the  estate  in  one 
of  the  northern  counties,  with  an  income  sufficient  to 
maintain  them  in  very  good  style,  if  not  altogether  in 
such  as  they  have  hitherto  been  accustomed  to.  But  to 


846  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

the  book-loving  George  Bouverie  this  change  brings  few 
regrets,  while  his  wife,  true  to  the  haughty  spirit  th»t 
governs  her,  says  little,  and  seems  only  passionately  anx- 
ious to  hasten  her  departure  from  amongst  those  who  have 
witnessed  her  former  glories. 

Bruno  remains  behind  in  the  pretty  home  left  him  by 
the  will  of  an  ancestor,  paying  his  parents  every  now  and 
then  short  visits,  the  shorter  perhaps  in  that  he  finds  it  a 
difficulty  to  tear  himself  away  for  any  lengthened  period 
from  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Wemyss. 

Of  his  mother  Dick  has  seen  nothing  since  their  part- 
ing in  the  drawing-room  at  Greylands,  but  of  his  father 
he  has  taken  an  affectionate  farewell.  A  sullen  animosity 
that  threatens  to  last  for  all  time  exists  toward  him  in 
the  mind  of  the  ci-devant  Lady  Bouverie,  an  animosity 
closely  copied  by  her  son.  But,  with  the  little  gentle 
aoul  beside  him  who  is  so  soon  to  be  his  life's  companion, 
it  is  only  reasonable  to  suppose  that  an  amnesty  of  some 
sort — if  only  for  his  father's  sake — will  be  patched  up 
amongst  them  sooner  or  later. 

With  Mrs.  Drummond  and  persons  of  that  class  dire 
is  the  dismay  consequent  on  Dolores'  triumph.  A  sense 
of  utter  failure  pervades  them.  They  had  resolutely  re- 
fused to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shone,  and  now  the  rain 
is  descending  upon  them.  Too  late  is  their  submission, 
too  late  the  hurrying  to  and  fro  and  the  casting  of  the 
offerings  at  the  idol's  feet! 

A  ball  is  given  at  Greylands  by  Miss  Maturin,  a  kind 
of  informal  introduction  to  the  county  of  Sir  Richard  and 
his  daughter,  the  young  fiancee,  at  which  the  Duchess 
and  all  the  best  people  in  the  neighborhood  make  a  point 
of  being  present,  but  for  which  Miss  Maturin  forgets  to 
•end  Mrs.  Drummond  an  invitation. 


"I  think  I  want  to  give  a  little  dinner  in  honor  of  all 
these  marvelous  transformation-scenes,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss, 
standing  on  the  lawn  at  Greylands  and  addressing  those 
around  her.  "  You  will  come  to  me,  Miss  Maturin,  and 
you,  Sir  Richard,  with  Dolores?  And  you,  Miss  Ponson- 
by  " — turning  gracefully  to  Audrey,  who  is  talking  idly 
to  Sir  Chicksy  on  her  right  hand. 

"  I  never  go  anywhere,  thank  you,"  returns  Audrey, 


DICK'S    SWEETHEABT.  34? 

•lowly,  letting  the  late  rose-leaves  in  her  hand  fall  sys- 
tematically to  the  earth  one  by  one. 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  come  to  me," 
returns  the  pretty  widow  brightly;  "  and  the  Elms  is 
really  no  distance  at  all.  Though  why  the  'Elms'? 
That  name  is  the  one  unanswerable  conundrum  I  know." 
exclaims  she,  turning  to  Bruno  and  laughing  gayly.  "  It 
exercises  me  more  than  I  can  say.  Was  it  meant  in  irony? 
Did  they  give  my  unfortunate  home  that  name  simply  be- 
cause there  wasn't  an  elm  within  a  mile  of  it?"  Then, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  figure  that  brings  her  again  face 
to  face  with  Audrey — "  You  will  come,  Miss  Ponsonby?" 

"I  really  never  go  anywhere,"  persists  Audrey,  but 
very  gently. 

"  Except  to  a  Duchess  or  a  Dolores,"  returns  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  laughing.  "  Make  me  your  third  exception." 

There  is  something  so  irresistibly  friendly  in  her  man- 
ner, her  smile,  and  her  little  nez  retrousse,  that  Audrey 
hesitates. 

"Ah,  yes,  dear  Audrey!"  whispers  Dolores,  slipping 
her  arm  through  hers. 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  come  to  yon," 
says  Andrey,  impulsively,  raising  her  head  and  smiling 
one  of  her  rare  smiles  at  Mrs.  Wemyss. 

"  So  glad  she  has  consented  to  come  to  me!"  murmurs 
Mrs.  Wemyss,  presently,  turning  to  Vyner,  who  happens 
to  be  standing  near  her.  "She  is  such  a  charming  girl!  I 
like  her  more  than  I  can  say.  Don't  you?" 

"N-o,  not  more  than  I  could  say."  His  tone  is  dis- 
paraging, whatever  his  words  may  be. 

Mrs.  Wemyss  glances  at  him  quickly. 

"  But  you  do  like  her?"  she  asks,  with  pretty  persist- 
ence. 

"Do  I?" 

"  I  am  asking  you  the  question." 

"Ah!  Well,  now  that  you  compel  me  to  think  of  it," 
says  Mr.  Vyner,  reflectively,  "  I  don't  believe  I  could 
honestly  make  my  answer  '  Yes.'  No,  '  like'  is  not  the 
word." 

"  Too  weak  perhaps?"  suggests  Mrs,  Wemyss;  but  she 
bites  her  lip  slightly  and  regards  him  with  distinct  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Or  perhaps  too  strong." 


348  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Your  taste  then  is  not  to  be  depended  upon!"  ex- 
claims she,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  castingat  him 
a  half-contemptuous  glance  that  seems  to  amuse  him 
highly.  "  She  may  seem  a  little  overreserved  and  cold, 
but  au  fond  she  is  worth  a  dozen  of  most  girls." 

"  An  ordinary  dozen  or  a  baker's  dozen?"  questions  he, 
teasingly. 

"How  full  of  purpose  she  is,  and  what  a  splendid 
daughter  she  makes!"  goes  on  Mrs.  Wemyss,  declining 
.haughtily  to  notice  his  frivolous  interruption.  "What 
care  she  takes  of  that  dear  old  bookworm!  Why,  he 
could  not  have  fewer  wants — thanks  to  her  never-ending 
though  tfulness — if  his  small  income  were  treble  what  it 
really  is!  I  call  her  devoted.  And  just  imagine  what  a 
cruelty  it  must  be  to  a  girl  like  her,  with  her  beauty  and 
finish  and  naturally  high  aspirations,  to  be  compelled  to 
the  perpetual  counting  of  the  cost.  I  can't  think  why 
she  doesn't  make  a  good  marriage  and  put  an  end  to  it 
all."  She  pauses,  as  though  in  expectation  of  an  answer, 
or  perhaps  to  take  breath. 

"  Neither  can  I,"  says  Vyner,  returning  her  steady 
gaze  in  kind.  "A  withering  contempt  for  our  sex,  no 
doubt!  She  is — as  you  say — so  very  superior." 

"  There  is  Sir  Ohicksy  Chaucer,"  continues  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  darting  a  keen  glance  at  him,  which  he  receives 
with  the  most  admirable  fortitude,  and  then  returns  to 
her  again.  "  He  has  been  at  her  feet,  as  we  all  know, 
for  ages — proposes  to  her  once  a  week,  without  fail,  I 
hear;  yet  she  won't  even  look  at  him." 

"Ah,  that  accounts  for  it!"  says  Vyner.  "If  she  did 
look,  you  see,  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  refuse  him!" 

"Yon  may  scoff  if  you  will" — a  little  warmly;  "but  I 
can  tell  you  that,  after  all,  he  is  not  so  very  muoh  to  be 
despised." 

"  After  all— no!" 

"His  rent-roll  is  enormous;  it  would  cover  a  multitude 
of  sins  with  most  women,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  a  trifle 
vehemently,  as  though  nettled  by  his  tone.  "  And  then 
there  is  the  title!  He  is  as  good  a  match  as  I  know." 

"  Excellent!  Why  don't  you  have  him  yourself?"  asks 
Vyner,  laughing,  who  is  a  sufficiently  old  friend  to  be 
able  to  say  what  he  likes. 

"  Well,  she  won't  have  anything  to  say  to  him,"  says 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  349 

Mrs.  Wemyss,  plaintively.  "I  call  it  a  clear  throwing 
away  of  one's  opportunities.  And  if  it  was  only  Sir 
Chicksy;  but  there  was —  By  the  bye,  did  you  hear  of 
young  Drummond's  affair?" 

"  No." 

"  I'm  not  breaking  confidence,  you  will  understand,  if 
I  tell  you;  because  Georgia  a  and  Mrs.  Druramond  were 
go  furious  that  any  one  should  dare  to  refuse  their 
'darling  Reggie'  that  they  posted  that  poor  youth's  re- 
jection all  over  the  place — could  not  keep  from  talking  of 
'that  Miss  Ponsonby's  impertinence!'  even  to  save  hit 
blushes." 

"  What  was  he  blushing  about?" 

"Audrey's  indignant  rejection  of  his  advances.  He 
came  down  here,  you  may  remember,  about  a  month  ago, 
just  before  you  went  up  to  town,  and  fell  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  her.  But  she  would  none  of  him.  Foolish 
girl,  say  I!  He  will  have  a  princely  fortune  by  and  by — 
a  good  thing  at  any  time  even  though  '  grandpapa's ' 
sugar  may  have  helped  to  make  it.  And  really,  when 
one  could  manage  to  forget  the  whiteness  of  poor  Reggie's 
lashes,  he  wasn't  at  all  a  bad  young  man." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Wemyss,  consider  what  you  are  saying! 
Bad!  I  have  always  understood  that  Reginald  Drum- 
mond  was  endowed  by  a  beneficent  Nature,  as  a  set-off  to 
his  lack  of  ancestors,  with  a  disposition  replete  with  mo- 
rality. Don't  destroy  my  fond  impressions;  don't  malign 
the  absent.  He  is,  too,  the  very  image  of  the  good  Geor- 
gina.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  admire  him," 

"  Satire  is  a  poor  thing,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  curling 
her  dainty  lip.  "  And,  at  all  events,  I  think  Audrey  is 
playing  fast  and  loose  with  very  capital  chances.  A  fool- 
ish thing,  for  youth  won't  last  forever.  I  wonder  " — with 
another  swift  glance  at  him — "why  it  is  she  won't  marry?" 

"Is  that  a  riddle?"  asks  he,  airily.  "If  so,  I  can't 
help  you  to  a  solution  of  it.  It  is  one  that  I  myself  have 
•onght  for  years  to  solve  in  vain." 

"Yet  there  must  be  a  solution,  for  all  that." 

"  I  dare  say;  at  any  moment  it  may  dawn  upon  us.  I 
knew  people  who  took  in  Vanity  Fair — they  called  them- 
selves the  '  Tootsie-Wootsies  ' — and  they  took  it  in  very 
much  indeed!  They  used  to  guess  all  the  conundrums 
straight  off.  I  wish  we  had  them  here  now,  don't  you?" 


850  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss  rather  wrathfully; 
"and  I  don't  see  either  what  they  have  to  do  with 
Audrey." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  haven't  anything  to  do  with  her!"  ac- 
knowledges Vyner,  mildly.  "  So  far  from  that,  I  don't 
believe  she  has  ever  even  heard  of  them.  Oh,  dear  no! 
But,  talking  of  Miss  Ponsonby,  do  you  know  I — I  have  at 
last  formed  an  idea." 

"  Good  heavens!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Wemyss  tpagically. 

"Now  who  is  satirical?"  reminds  he,  reproachfully. 
"  But  just  listen  to  me;  at  this  very  moment  something 
has  occurred  to  me." 

He  squeezes  his  glass  into  his  eye  and  turns  upon  Mrs. 
Wemyss  a  confidential  glance.  It  is  so  confidential  that 
she  warms  to  it.  His  voice  sinks  to  a  whisper. 

"  I  have  it!"  he  says. 

"Ah,  you  have  at  last  guessed!"  cries  she,  excitedly. 
She  bends  forward  to  receive  his  belief. 

"  Yes — at  last  the  truth  has  suggested  itself  to  me." 
He  glances  round  him  cautiously,  as  though  afraid  of  be- 
ing overheard,  and  then  rests  his  earnest  gaze  upon  her. 
"Look  here!"  he  says,  impressively.  "You  take  my 
word  for  it;  she  has  her  eye  on  Bruno  Bouverie!" 

He  lets  his  glass  fall.  In  spite  of  himself,  a  mischiev- 
ous laugh  falls  on  the  air.  Turning  abruptly  upon  his  heel, 
he  walks  away  leisurely. 

Mrs.  Wemyss,  her  cheeks  a  charming  red,  gazes  after 
his  retreating  figure;  that  he  is  laughing  as  he  goes  is  ap- 
parent to  her.  After  a  prolonged  observation  she,  too, 
gives  way  to  a  subdued  merriment. 

"  I  owe  you  one  for  that,  Master  Anthony!"  she  says  to 
herself  good-humoredly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  dinner  at  the  Elms  is  a  great  success.  Dinners, 
of  all  entertainments,  seldom  are;  but  this  one  at  least  is 
all  it  ought  to  be.  Every  one  is  in  the  gayest  spirits. 
The  women's  gowns  are  exquisitely  toned,  the  wines  be- 
yond dispute,  the  entrees  hot;  what  more  oan  be  desired? 
Even  Sir  Richard  has  come  out  of  his  accustomed  reserve, 
and  chats  with  open  interest  with  his  pretty  neighbor, 
who  of  course  happens  to  be  his  hosteis  too. 


DlCl'8    SWEETHEART.  351 

Dolorei  it  looking  radiantly  happy.  Her  eye*  art 
shining;  her  curled  hair,  that  has 

"  The  wave  of  sea-water 

And  the  sea's  gold  in  it," 

is  nestling  about  her  white  brows  and  throwing  gentlo 
ihadows  into  the  gentler  orbs  beneath.  She  looks  so 
young,  sc  true,  so  lovable,  that  all  hearts  go  out  to  her. 

"  She  is  the  very  sweetest  thing  in  all  this  fair  round 
world,"  thinks  her  lover,  as  he  watches  her  with  fondly 
eager  eves  from  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

But  a  seed  from  grief's  full  pod  falls  everywhere!  To 
Sir  Chicksy  Chaucer  alone  is  it  permitted  to  present  the 
inevitable  contrast  that  is  wanted  to  show  off  the  fullness 
of  the  dominant  joy.  He  does  the  part  to  perfection. 

All  through  dinner  he  sits  glowering  upon  space,  with 
now  and  then  a  relaxation  that  enables  him  to  fix  upon  Mr. 
Vyner,  who  happens  to  be  seated  next  to  Audrey,  a  most 
malevolent  eye  and  a  glance  full  of  deadliest  enmity. 
Vyner,  in  the  course  of  time  becoming  aware  of  the  eye 
and  the  enmity,  is  at  first  surprised  by  them,  and  then 
intensely  amused.  Presently  however,  growing  tired  of 
the  little  baronet's  spasmodic  glances,  he  turns  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Well,  are  yon  satisfied?"  he  asks,  in  a  low  tone  full 
of  a  half-contemptuous  pleasantry.  "I  have  been  hear- 
ing a  good  deal  about  you  of  late,  and,  from  what  I  have 
gleaned,  your  harvest  is  great;  everybody  has  asked  you 
to  marry  him — is  it  not  so?  Your  scalps  must  be  consid- 
erable." 

Audrey  looks  at  him  curiously  for  an  instant,  and  then 
her  lips  widen  into  a  smile  curious  as  her  glance. 

"No,  not  everybody,"  she  answers  coolly,  slightly 
mimicking  his  tone.  "  So  you  see  my  cup  of  joy  is  not 
yet  quite  full." 

"  How  many  yet  remain  to  be  undone?" 

"One." 

"  And  that  one?" 

Miss  Ponsonby  raises  her  straight  brows  and  looks  at 
him  with  audacious  amusement  in  her  glance. 

"You!"  she  says  distinctly. 

For  a  moment  Vyner  is  disconcerted;  then,  in  spite  ot 
himself,  he  laughs^out  loud. 


352  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"Am  I  the  defaulter?" 

"Yes,  you  alone  of  all  have  forgotten  to  go  down 
before  my  charms,"  returns  she  mockingly.  She  shrugs 
her  shoulders  and  turns  from  him,  as  though  to  end  the 
matter  by  entering  into  converse  with  her  neighbor  on  the 
other  side. 

"  My  fault  must  be  remedied,"  says  Vyner,  not  hastily, 
but  just  in  time  to  prevent  her  opening  conversation  with 
Bruno  Bouverie.  "  I  would  not  have  it  said  that  your 
mission  in  life  was  a  failure!  Your  roll-call  should  not  be 
incomplete.  Now,  on  the  spot,  let  me  make  amends  for 
my  remissness.  Miss  Ponsonby,  will  you  marry  me?" 

He  is  still  smiling  somewhat  superciliously;  but  his  eyes 
are  fixed  on  hers,  and  there  is  a  strange  gleam  in  them  she 
has  never  seen  there  before.  It  puzzles  her. 

"Yes,"  she  says  nonchalantly,  in  answer  to  his  question 
whilst  still  studying  the  strangeness  of  his  expression. 
"  You  know  what  you  have  said?"  asks  he. 
"  Why  should  I  not?" — calmly.    "You  know  what  you 
said." 

"Beyond  a  doubt." 

She  smiles  again.  But  it  is,  for  all  that,  clear  to  him 
that  she  has  grown  extraordinarily  pale.  She  lets  her  eyes 
wander  slowly  from  his,  and  now  indeed  gives  her  atten- 
tion resolutely  to  Bruno,  who  has  something  to  tell  her  of 
his  mother,  not  being  able  to  devote  himself  exclusively 
to  Mrs.  Wemyss,  who  is  making  herself  charming  to  Sir 
Richard.  Bruno  might  indeed  at  this  moment  have  let 
himself  grow  a  little  jealous  of  the  old  baronet  but  for  the 
sweet  glances  his  hostess  gives  him  every  now  and  then, 
tiie  sweeter  for  the  fear  that  they  may  be  intercepted. 

Vyner,  slipping  a  ring  from  his  little  finger — a  huge 
and  almost  priceless  diamond  that  has  been  in  his  family 
for  generations — lays  it,  under  cover  of  the  table-cloth,  on 
Miss  Ponsonby's  lap.  Starting  a  little,  she  looks  first  at 
it  and  then  at  him,  with  such  open  amazement  in  her 
eyes  that  he  is  compelled  to  speak. 

"  You  remember  what  you  said,"  he  whispers  quietly. 
"  Wear  that,  and  I  will  believe  you." 

"  Seeing  is  believing,"  returns  she  carelessly.  "  Well, 
which  finger?"  She  looks  at  her  ten  pretty  slender  fin- 
gers as  she  says  this;  then,  as  though  she  has  forgotten 
him,  the  ring,  and  everything  but  her  present  thought; — 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Bruno  has  just  told  me?"  she  asfcs 
lightly. 

"  Never  mind  Bruno.  We  were  talking  of  that  ring. 
You  will  place  it  on  your  engaged  finger,  of  course.  It 
is  the  usual  thing." 

"  You  are  inexhaustible;  you  will  see  your  farce  out  to 
its  very  end,"  she  says,  smiling. 

Displacing  one  or  two  old-fashioned  rings  upon  her  left 
hand,  she  places  his  ring  there  instead. 

Just  at  this  moment  one  of  the  servants  offers  her  an 
entree.  Leaning  a  little  back  to  help  herself,  the  diamond 
meets  the  light  and  flashes  conspicuously. 

"  What  a  beautiful  stone,"  she  says  presently,  when  the 
man  has  passed  on — "beautiful  enough  to  be  remarkable! 
Every  one  will  see  it." 

"If  you  meant  that  'Yes*  of  awhile  since,  what  need 
that  matter?" 

"And  if  I  did  not?" 

"  Why,  then  I  shall  be  even  a  greater  fool  than  all  the 
others  that  have  gone  before  me — a  sorry  reflection! 
Must  it  be  mine?" 

"  You  see,"  says  she  reflectively,  "  that  is  a  word  could 
never  be  applied  to  you." 

"  You  can  be  kind  when  you  like,  it  seems." 

"And  unkind,  too.  Women,  they  say,  have  a  passion 
for  diamonds;  perhaps  this  one  of  yonrs  has  softened  me, 
momentarily.  Now  take  it  back.  See,  it  is  too  large  for 
me;  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  it." 

"  It  would  be  lost  in  a  good  cause,  and  I  certainly 
fihaVt  take  it  back." 

"  Will  you  take  the  consequences  then  instead?  Some 
exchange  is  due  to  you." 

"  Yes,  I'll  take  the  consequences." 

"  It  is  a  bargain?" 

"Certainly." 

"I  think  I've  the  best  of  it,"  says  Miss  Ponsonby, 
laughing. 

"  I'm  so  very  glad  you  think  so,"  returns  Vyner,  with 
gome  emphasis. 

Gradually,  in  spite  of  the  butler,  dinner  draws  to  a 
close,  and,  the  men  risiyrg  with  the  women,  they  all  soon 

find  themselves  in  the  diuwing-room.     Tiie  windows  are 
is 


354  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

thrown  wide  open,  and  through  them  rush  the  balmy 
wind  and  the  first  clear  streaks  of  moonlight. 

"  What  a  lovely  night!  Shall  we  go  and  see  how  the 
gardens  are  looking?"  asks  Mrs.  Wemyss.  "  Sir  Chicksy,'' 
addressing  that  woe-begone  youth  with  considerable  em- 
pressement,  "  will  you  come  out  with  me?  Do!  I  am 
sure  you  have  a  bad  headache,  and  the  cool  night-wind 
will  do  you  a  world  of  good." 

Sir  Chicksy,  who  by  this  time  is  awfully  far  gone  in 
melancholia,  says  never  a  word — grief  has  laid  too  heavy 
a  hand  upon  him  to  permit  of  careless  speech;  but  he 
follows  her  obediently  down  the  stone  steps  of  the  balcony 
and  across  the  grass  to  where  the  gravel  walk  checks 
them.  Here  he  strikes  an  attitude  suggestive  of  dispair, 
and  smites  his  breast  with  an  impartial  hand. 

"  It  wasn't  a  headache,'*  he  says  at  last,  just  as  she  be- 
gins to  grow  frightened,  "  it  was  she!" 

"  Who?"  demands  Mrs.  Wemyss — not  because  she  doei 
not  know,  but  because  she  wants  to  gain  time. 

"  Audrey,"  returns  he,  in  a  ghastly  tone.  "  You  mark 
my  words,"  cries  this  wretched  young  man  very  feebly; 
"  she  will  be  the  death  of  me!  I  know  it!  I  feel  it  here!" 
— striking  with  a  clinched  hand  his  unoffending  forehead, 
which  sends  out,  as  if  in  answer  to  him,  a  hollow  rever- 
beration. "  Remember  my  words  when  I  shall  be  no 
more!"  he  whispers,  wildly.  "My  death  will  lie  at  her 
door;  something  within  me  tells  me  so." 

Again  he  strikes  his  manly  brow,  and  looks  as  though 
he  were  going  to  call  upon  all  the  gods  of  Olympus  to  wit- 
ness his  sufferings  and  his  secret  convictions. 

"Nonsense!  Never  mind  your  brains,"  says  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  coolly  and  very  sensibly;  "  no  doubt  they  are 
telling  you  something  utterly  absurd.  Forget  them,  and 
confide  in  me  this  thing  that  is  distressing  you." 

"You  see  before  you  a  blighted  being!"  declares  the 
love-lorn  baronet,  running  his  fingers  through  his  pallid 
locks  until  they  stand  straight  upright  on  his  head  and 
give  him  the  appearance  of  being  even  a  little  farther  gone 
than  usual  upon  the  road  that  leads  to  the  nearest  asylum 
for  lunatics.  "  For  me  life  no  longer  possesses  a  charm. 
The  grave — the  grave  alone  I  sigh  for!" 

"But  why  sigh  at  all?"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  comfort- 
ably. "  And.  as  for  the  grave*  mv  dear  Sir  Chicksy,  take 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  3o5 

Hiy  word  ror  it,  you'd  find  it  a  most  unpleasant  place.  It 
is  all  very  well  to  abuse  the  world;  but  a  coffin  is  an 
odious  thing  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it." 

"  I  would  I  were  lying  in  mine!"  protests  he  in  a  hol- 
low tone.  "  What  is  life  without  lovs?  A  mockery,  a 
delusion,  and  a  snare!" 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?"  demands  Mrs.  Wem.yss,  just  one  little  note  of 
sharpness  in  her  soft  voice.  Who  shall  blame  her?  "  You 
will  feel  any  amount  better  if  you  will  just  get  it  off  your 
mind,  whatever  it  is." 

"  I've  told  yon.  It's  Audrey!"  says  the  woful  knight, 
sighing  deeply.  "  I  took  your  advice  and  proposed  to  her 
again.  It  was  the  seventh  time!  I  said  to  myself,  'This 
is  the  mystic  number;  now  I  shall  succeed — soon  I  shall 
call  my  love  my  own!'  With  high  hope  and  a  beating 
heart  I  approached  her  footstool.  I  knelt  to  her.  At  her 
feet  I  poured  out  all  my  soul,  I  laid  bare  my  innermost 
thoughts.  She  heard  me;  she  listened — yea,  to  the  very 
end;  and  then — " 

He  pauses,  as  though  overpowered  by  his  feelings. 

"Well?"— eagerly. 

''  She  sort  of  told  me  to  get  out,"  winds  up  Sir  Chicksy, 
somewhat  insufficiently,  and  with  a  dolorous  sniffle;  "she 
would  none  of  me!  She  wouldn't  hear  of  me  as  a  husband 
at  any  price!  She  wouldn't  so  much  as  look  at  me!" 

Here  he  falls  a-weeping. 

"Don't  do  that!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Wemyss,  indignantly. 
"It's — it's  abominable  of  you!  Haven't  you  any  self- 
respect?" 

"  Not  a  particle!"  declares  he,  still  crying  noisily.  "Why 
should  I?  What  good  would  it  do  me?  All  my  hopes 
are  '  dear  departeds ';  there's  nothing  left  to  me!  I'd  as 
aoon  bo  dead  as  alive-!" 

"  Or  sooner,  perhaps."  suggests  she,  with  a  suspicion  of 
a  smile,  speedily  checked.  "But  why  give  in  at  only  a 
seventih  repulse?  Try  it  again!" 

"She  wouldn't  stand  it;  she  as  much  as  told  me  so. 
Even  as  I  knelt  before  her  that  last  time,  phe  said,  coldly 
as  a  beautiful  sorceress,  'If  ever  you  even  hint  at  this 
hateful  nonsense  again,  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  house!' 
'Hateful' — that  was  the  word  that  she  used  toward  my 


S56  DICK'S    SWEETHEABT. 

devoted  affection,  I  give  you  my  honor!"  says  Sir  Chicksy, 
beginning  to  weep  afresh.  "  Now  what  d'ye  call  that?" 

"  Barbarity,"  decides  Mrs.  Wemyss,  promptly,  who  is, 
however,  consumed  with  a  desire  for  laughter.  "I  won- 
der you  don't  abuse  her  like  a  pickpocket!  Oh,  what  a 
senseless  girl,  to  be  blind  to  such  charms  as  yours!" 

"  Couldn't  you  say  a  word  for  me?"  entreats  Sir  Ohicksy 
miserably,  taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it  convulsively. 
"Do,  do!"  He  is  gazing  up  at  her  in  the  misty  moon- 
light, his  eyes  swimming  with  grief.  His  fingers  have 
played  such  havoc  with  his  head  by  this  time  that  he 
looks  for  all  the  world  like  the  fretful  porcupine,  as  he 
stands,  miserably  disheveled,  waiting  for  her  answer. 

"  '  How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears!'" 

breathes  Mrs.  Wemyss,  half  as  a  safety-valve  to  her  sap- 
pressed  mirth,  half  with  the  hope  of  gaining  time. 
"  Dear  Sir  Chicksy,  you  know  I  am  always  your  friend. 
I  will  do  what  I  can." 

This  is  hardly  hypocrisy  on  her  part,  as  she  has  indeed 
many  a  time  and  oft  dropped  hints  about  Sir  Chicksy's 
wealth  and  position  to  the  irresponsive  Audrey. 

"Ah,  but  what  will  you  do?"  demands  he  anxiously, 
who  is  perhaps  only  half  such  a  fool  as  he  looks. 

Whilst  Mrs.  Wemyss  hesitates  as  to  what  proper  answer 
she  shall  make  to  this  pertinent  question,  the  sound  of 
an  advancing  footstep  comes  to  her  aid. 

"  Another  time  you  must  discuss  this  matter  with  me," 
she  breathes  confidentially,  gathering  up  her  long  train, 
as  though  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  departure  from  the 
spot  on  which  they  stand  is  imperative — "another  time, 
and  soon.  Till  then —  Somebody  is  coming,"  she  says 
quickly — "  you  hear?  This  spot  is  growing  too  popu- 
larized for  confidences.  Adieu,  then,  until  fortune  favors 
us  again !" 

She  glides  away  from  him,  and  is  soon  lost  to  sighc 
amongst  the  encircling  foliage.  Sir  Chicksy  is  about  to 
follow  her  example  and  disappear  in  another  direction, 
whon  a  solitary  figure  stepping  out  upon  the  balcony  at- 
tracts his  attention. 

It  is  Audrey!  Approaching  the  iron  rails  that  bound 
the  balcony,  she  leans  UDO-II  them ,  and  gazes  down  upon 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  85 

the  semi-darkness  below,  where  Mr.  Vyner  is  walking  up 
and  down  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  Mr.  Vyner!"  calls  she  softly. 

Hearing  her,  Vyner  conies  to  a  stand-still  beneath  the 
balcony,  and  looks  up  at  her,  cigar  in  hand. 

"  Here — catch!"  she  says,  lowering  to  him  a  beautiful 
arm  white  as  snow,  which  gleams  in  the  moonlight  and 
has  a  little  hand  at  the  end  of  it  holding  something 
fightly  clinched. 

"  Are  you  going  to  throw  me  something?"  asks  he  cart- 
\essly.  "  If  so,  don't.  I  could  not  see  it." 

"  Join  your  hands  then,  and  hold  them  out;  you  will 
jurely  see  this!" 

"  That's  where  your  intellect  fails  you.  I  can  see  noth- 
ing. It  is  quite  an  Egyptian  darkness  down  here.  Are 
you  going  to  make  me  a  present?  If  you  think  it  is  my 
birthday,''  says  Mr.  Vyner  slowly  and  with  an  honorable 
effort,  "  1  feel  it  only  honest  to  let  you  know  that  my 
natal  day  is  not  now — it  comes  with  the  snow  and  the 
fcleet;  still,  if  you  are  bent  on  giving  me  something  hand- 
some, why,  come  down  and  do  it!" 

Slowly,  daintily,  Audrey  descends  the  stone  steps  to 
meet  him,  awaiting  her  upon  the  grass  beneath. 

"  Take  it!"  she  says,  extending  her  hand  to  him  palm 
uppermost,  on  which  his  ring  is  lying. 

"  Why,  that  is  yours!"  says  he. 

A  vehement  gesture,  expressive  of  anger,  escapes  her. 

"  Take  it!"  she  says  again,  with  an  impatience  that  is 
almost  fierce. 

"  I  can't  indeed,"  returns  he  calmly,  flinging  his  cigar 
far  from  him.  "  It  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  Why, 
it  is  hardly  an  hour  ago  since  you  accepted  not  only  it, 
but  me!  I  fear  you  will  have  to  keep  us  both." 

She  pales  very  perceptibly  beneath  his  steady  look,  but 
her  gaze  refuses  to  falter.  Her  dark  eyea  look  at  him  out 
of  her  colorless  face  with  a  strange  but  unvarying  light 
that  is  perhaps  even  a  little  contemptuous. 

"  A  jest  prolonged  is  but  a  poor  thing,"  she  says,  with 
a  flickering  smile  that  has  no  mirth  in  it. 

"There  I  agree  with  you;  though  I  confess  I  can  not 
see  where  the  jest  conies  in  here.  I  have  your  word,  the 
word  that  gave  you  to  me,  and  I  intend  keeping  you  to 
it,  whether  you  will  or  whither  jgu  won't."  Then  his 


368  DICE'S    SWEETHEART. 

whole  manner  changes;  an  inexpressible  Tenderness  alters 
iind  characterizes  it.  "You  did  mean  what  you  said?" 
he  asks  very  gently,  almost  beseechingly. 

No  answer  coming  to  him,  he  lays  his  hands  with  a 
certain  suddenness  upon  her  shoulders,  and  turns  her 
.slight  figure  to  where  the  moonbeams  can  fall  upon  it. 

"  Speak!"  he  says,  with  a  closer  scrutiny. 

It  is  possible  that  in  his  anxiety  he  may  have  given  her 
a  gentle  shake.  She  does  not  resent  it,  but  her  eyes  fill 
with  tears. 

"  Ah,"  says  Vyner,  "  even  though  you  refuse  to  accept 
me,  still  I  tell  you  you  are  mine!  I  will  give  you  up  to 
no  man  on  earth!"  He  leans  a  little  forward,  still  with 
his  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  as  if  keeping  her  in  cus- 
tody. "  Now  I  am  going  to  kiss  my  wife,"  he  says,  with 
determination. 

Audrey,  laying  five  little  outspread  fingers  upon  his 
chest,  presses  him  from  her.  Her  face  is  ashen  white, 
her  lips  are  quivering. 

"Anthony,  what  is  it  you  mean?"  she  whispers,  in  a 
voice  so  changed  by  tremulous  agitation  as  to  be  a  breath 
rather  than  a  voice. 

"  That  I  love  you,"  replies  Vyner  earnestly;  "  you 
must  have  known  it,  and  that  you  love  me  too,  though 
not  perhaps  so  deeply  as  I  love  you;  still  I  dare  to  believe 
that  I  am  better  in  your  eyes  than  any  other  man." 

He  encircles  her  with  his  arms  and  draws  her  toward 
him,  she  unresisting.  There  is  a  long  pause,  fraught 
with  many  thoughts;  and  then  she  lays  her  head  upon  his 
breast. 

"At  last— at  last  I  am  happy!"  she  whispers  a  little 
wildly,  and  bursts  into  a  passion  of  tears. 


CHAPTEE  XL. 

HALF  an  hour  has  gone  by,  giving  time  to  a  very 
stricken  young  man  to  steal  away  and  lose  himself,  but 
not  his  indignant  misery,  amongst  the  laurels  and  the 
rhododendrons  in  the  shrubbery,  and  still  Audrey  and 
Vyner  are  standing  in  a  very  lover-like  attitude,  forgetful 
of  time,  forgetful  of  everything  but  themselves,  when  a 
sudden  rustle  of  draperies,  a  faint  footfall,  rouses  them 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  359 

from  their  fairy-dream  and  warns  them  of  impending 
danger. 

With  a  sense  of  guilt  they  start  hastily  apart  and  glance 
in  the  direction  of  the  coming  sound. 

And  now  a  pretty  daintily  clad  form  is  discernible 
through  the  moonlit  gloom.  It  is  Mrs.  Wemyss — of  that 
they  are  immediately  aware — her  somewhat  bizarre  cos- 
tume rendering  her  very  conspicuous  upon  the  graveled 
pathway. 

"  It  might  have  been  worse,"  says  Vyner,  pressing 
Audrey's  hand  reassuringly. 

That  Mrs.  Wemys  has  seen  them  is  manifest  by  the 
very  way  in  which  she  comes  to  a  stand-still  and  wavers 
openly  as  to  whether  she  shall  or  shall  not  swoop  down 
upon  them.  She  makes  a  step  toward  them,  then  pauses, 
and  finally — like  all  those  who  hesitate — she  is  lost,  and 
turning  away  from  them,  commences  a  hasty  retreat. 

"  Let  us  intercept  her,"  whispers  Vyner;  and,  still 
holding  Audrey's  hand,  he  hurries  after  the  departing 
figure  of  their  hostess. 

"  As  you  witnessed  the  first  act,  you  might  have  done 
us  the  honor  to  wait  for  the  last,"  he  says,  reproachfully, 
as  they  came  up  with  her. 

"But  how  then?"  demands  Mrs.  Wemyss  flinging  out 
her  hands  and  laughing gayly.  "How could  I?  You  see 
I  had  forgotten  to  ask  the  bishop  to  dinner." 

At  this  merry  retort  they  all  laugh. 

"I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss,  pres- 
ently looking  whole  volumes  of  congtatulation  at  them 
both.  "I  could  have  told  you  all  about  it  months  ago. 
I  am  so  glad  about  it!" 

She  kisses  Audrey  with  sincere  warmth;  and  Audrey 
kisses  her  back  again  with  an  abandon  she  would  have 
been  incapable  of  a  week  ago. 

"  It  wasn't  Bruno,  after  all,  you  see!"  says  Vyner,  mit- 
chievously.  "  It  was  I!" 

"  So  I  see.  Well,  I'm  delighted — though  what  I'm  to 
say  to  that  melancholy  Sir  Chicksy,  after  the  encourage- 
ment I  have  given  him  only  this  very  night,  I  don't  know." 
Then  she  smiles  again,  and  points  toward  the  gardens  be- 
yond. "  It  is  too  early  to  waste  time  on  outsiders,"  she 
says,  regarding  the  lovers  with  sympathetic  eyes.  "  Don't 
do*  it.  Go  into  the  jcarden;  vbu  will  find  a  seat  there 


860  DICK'S    SWEETHB1.KT. 

somewhere,  and  a  very  marvel  of  a  moon  rioting  madly 
among  my  stately  hollyhocks." 

They  are  not  slow  to  take  her  hint;  and  scarcely  have 
they  disappeared  when  Bruno  comes  upon  the  scene  from 
behind  a  protective  hedge. 

"To  whom  were  yon  talking?"  asks  he,  drawing  near. 
"  I  heard  voices  as  I  came  along  on  a  wild-goose  chase  for 
you  which  has  lasted  for  a  mortal  hour.  Have  1  driven 
my  rival  away?" 

He  looks,  in  spite  of  a  careful  self-suppression,  very 
decidedly  inclined  toward  jealousy. 

"  I  was  listening  to  a  charming  confidence,"  says  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  gayly,  who  is  too  anxious  to  reveal  her  news  to 
stay  to  indulge  in  coquetry;  "Audrey  and  Anthony  Vyner 
have  been  with  me;  and — guess — " 

"  You  saved  them  from  annihilating  each  other  like  the 
Kilkenny  cats;  is  that  it?" 

"  Wrong,  0  Thersites!  On  the  contrary,  they  came  to 
me  as  cooing  doves  might  come,  to  tell  me  that  they  are 
engaged  to  be  married!" 

"  What?  Why,  I  thought  they  hated  each  other!" 

"  There  are  so  many  kinds  of  hatred.  You  will  remem- 
ber, perhaps,  that  extremes  meet;  so  that,  if  one  hates  a 
person  very,  very,  very  much,  why,  in  time  they  will  get 
to  the  other  end  of  it,  where  the  adoring  begins,  and  will 
wind  up  by  loving  each  other  very,  very,  very  much!" 

"  Would  they?"  questions  Bruno.  "  Then  I  wish  with 
all  my  heart  that  you  hated  me  'very,  very,  very  much!'" 

"  There  is  something  in  the  air,  isn't  there,  asks  Mrs. 
Wemyss,  reflectively,  ignoring  his  remark — "something 
magnetic  that  suggests  love?  At  least  one  might  reason- 
ably suppose  so,  as  everybody  seems  to  be  proposing  mar- 
riage to  everybody  else  to-night.  I  wish  somebody  would 
ask  me  to  marry  him.  I  feel  a  little  out  in  the  cold." 

"You  needn't.  On  an  average,  I  think  I  have  been 
proposing  to  you  morning,  noon,  and  night  for  the  past 
six  months." 

"  Well,  but  you  haven't  to-night,"  says  Mrs.  Wemyss 
carefully. 

"The  night  is  very  far  from  being  spent  yet,  and  such 
an  accusation  shall  not  be  cast  in  my  teeth.  I'll  do  it  now 
again,  or  die!  Would  v.uu  prefer  a  declaration  standing 
or  kneeling?" 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  861 

"You  have  so  often  done  it  both  ways  that — " 

"  That  it  must  be  easy  to  decide." 

"No,  difficult.  If  there  were  only  a  third  way,  it 
might  contain  a  charm.  But  one  grows  weary — " 

"  Of  saying  '  No  '  ?— quickly.  "  Say  '  Yes*  then  for  a 
change." 

4 '  Oh,  impossible!" — laughing,  blushing,  and  warding 
off  her  lover  as  he  draws  closer  to  her  by  holding  up  to 
him  two  pretty  pink  palms  extended.  "  If  I  said  'Yes' 
now,  I  should  always  think  it  was  I  had  proposed  to 
you.  And,  besides,  you  should  marry  some  pretty  little 
girl  ever  so  much  younger  than  you.  As  for  me,  I  am  no- 
body." 

"  Yon  are  all  the  world  to  me,  at  all  events;  don't 
make  it  a  wilderness  to  me."  A  moment  elapses  in  which 
he  has  defied  the  resisting  hands  and  drawn  her  to  his 
heart.  "  Say  you  will  marry  me,  Cis,"  desires  he,  in  a 
somewhat  masterful  tone. 

"  I  shall  pay  you  off  for  this  later  on,"  whispers  she,  with 
A  soft  laugh.  "  But,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  why,  then, 
yesl" 

"  You  mean  it?"  asks  Bruno,  tightening  his  grasp. 

"  I  mean  that  I  have  been  most  shamefully  coerced," 
returns  she,  smiling.  "  But  yet — " 

"  What,  darling?" 

"I  am  glad  of  the  coercion." 


"  Drowsy  night  grows  on  the  world," 

the  heavens  become  more  fair  by  reason  of  the  increase  of 
their  otarry  gems,  the  earth  beneath  is  full  of  the  reflex 
of  their  glory.  Under  the  rays  of  the  great  moon,  Dick 
and  his  soul's  desire  are  pacing  to  and  fro  upon  a  secluded 
pathway  hedged  in  by  flowering  myrtles  and  the  scented 
boughs  of  pale  walnut-trees. 

Dolores,  with  head  thrown  back  against  her  lover's 
breast,  is  musing  thoughtfully  on  many  happy  things 
that  are,  on  many  sorrowful  things  that  yet  have  been; 
but  no  grief  dwells  upon  her  gentle  face,  no  shadow  dima 
its  brightness.  The  purity  of  her  soft  lips  and  eyes  is 
nnmarred  by  cankering  care.  Hope  is  her  guest  to-night 
— hope  and  the  knowledge  of  a  great  love  that  with  fair 


362  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

face  and  sweet  has  stolen  into  her  inmost  heart  and  made 
an  everlasting  lodging  there. 

Dick  is  her  own  again,  her  love,  her  dearest  heart!  His 
care  will  be  as  a  girdle  round  her  always.  She  will  be 
his,  to  have  and  to  hold  forever,  to  guard,  to  cherish,  to 
Jceep  back  from  her  the  very  winds  of  heaven,  lest  they 
gmite  her  too  severely. 

A  glad  smile  full  of  beauty  overspreads  her  face  as  thus 
her  thoughts  wander  into  regions  replete  with  joy.  No 
memory  of  her  late  misery  stirs  her  soul.  All  trouble  is 
forgotten,  all  unquiet  recollections  are  laid  in  their  sullen 
grave.  Who  remembers  the  night  when  the  morning 
dawns?  Past  griefs  grow  dim  when  present  joys  abound. 

A  long  sweet  sigh  escapes  her,  a  sigh  of  the  very  deep- 
est content.  She  raises  her  eyes  to  her  lover,  only  to  find 
his  gaze  riveted  upon  her  in  the  clear  languorous  moon- 
light. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking,  darling?  Of  me?"  asks 
he,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  For  once,  no,"  confesses  Dolores,  smiling  and  rubbing 
her  cheek  softly  against  his.  "  Of  some  one  far  less  dear, 
yet  who  still  has  a  claim  upon  my  affection.  I  was  think- 
ing of  Mrs.  Burnet." 

"Ah,  that  good  woman!" 

"I  was  recalling  to  my  mind  how  she  looked  this  morn- 
ing when  I  gave  her  the  money  that  will  enable  her 
daughter  to  leave  service  and  marry  the  man  she  loves. 
Such  a  heavenly  delight  showed  itself  upon  her  face,  such 
joy,  such  gratitude.  It  was  almost  too  much;  it  made 
me  cry." 

Tears  are  standing  within  her  loving  eyes,  but  there  is  a 
gmile  upon  her  lips. 

"  Ah,"  cries  she,  "  I  am  so  happy  myself  that  I  would, 
if  it  were  possible,  see  all  true  lovers  happy  also!  And 
that  poor  mother's  glance  of  joy  is  a  thing  never  to  be 
forgotten.  Yes,"  with  a  little  sigh  of  intensest  satisfac- 
tion, "I  have  certainly  succeeded  in  making  some  one 
truly  glad  to-day! " 

"  To-day's  success  makes  two.  Do  I  not  count  with 
you?  Have  you  not  made  m«  happy?" 

He  receives  his  answer,  not  in  words,  but  in  a  tender 
deed. 

"  I  never  think  of  vou — von  are  myself,"  she  whispers 


DICK'S    SWEETHEART.  363 

presently.  "  And,  besides,  in  such  a  matter  «u  this  we 
are  quits.  I  could  give  you  no  larger  share  of  bliss  than 
you  have  given  me. 

"Beloved,  does  no  cruel  memory  of  the  sad  past  days 
torment  you  now?"  asfcs  he,  regarding  her  with  fond 
anxious  eyes.  "  You  feel  nothing." 

"Nothing,"  returns  she,  dreamily.  Her  arms  steal 
round  his  neck,  she  lays  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and 
for  awhile  is  very  silent.  Then — "  I  feel  only  this,"  she 
•ays  at  last,  as  though  she  has  been  revolving  his  question 
in  her  mind,  "that  I  am  with  you  now,  and  shall  be  so 
forever,  and  that  I  am  at  rest,  and  very,  very  thankful." 

There  is  a  pause  for  a  long  while;  but  they,  standing 
thus  together,  feeling  the  beating  of  each  other's  hearts, 
take  no  heed  of  the  rapid  flight  of  time.  She  is  in  his 
aif?ns,  the  one  thing  precious  to  him,  a  possession  before 
which  all  the  choicest  glories  of  the  world  pull. 

"  You  are  growing  stronger — your  old,  pretty  color  is 
Doming  back  to  you,"  he  says,  presently,  regarding  her 
with  a  most  thankful  criticism.  "  You  feel  better?"  with 
lover-like  anxiety. 

"I  am  altogether  well,"  returns  she,  smiling;  "body 
and  soul  are  free  from  pain.  Peace  alone  belongs  to  me. 
You  need  not  be  frightened  about  me  any  longer,  Dick  " 
— raising  her  beautiful,  laughing  eyes  to  his.  "  Only 
yesterday  Mrs.  Edgeworth  told  me  she  hoped  I  should  not 
grow  too  robust,  as  stoutness  was  a  terrible  fault  in  a 
young  lady." 

They  both  laugh. 

"  Dear  old  thing!"  says  Dolores.  "  I  am  so  glad  she  is 
still  pupa's  housekeeper.  She  told  me  she  was  a  little 
uneasy  at  first,  when  the  great  change  was  made,  lest  she 
should  not  be  considered  'grand  enough '  for  the  situation. 
But  I  soon  set  her  mind  at  rest  about  that." 

"  You  would  have  everybody's  mind  at  rest  if  you  had 
your  way,"  pays  Dick,  caressingly.  "Do  you  remember 
how  I  used  in  the  old  days  to  compare  you  to  a  white 
violet?" 

"  I  remember." 

"  I  was  wrong,  I  think;  I  have" — looking  at  her  very 
tenderly — "a  better  comparison  for  you  now.  You  are 
more  like  a  spring  daisy — so  fair  so  white,  BO  delicate, 
with  such  a  heart  of 


164  DICK'S    SWEETHEART. 

She  glances  up  at  him  with  parted  lipa,  a  J  eyes  alight 
v~ith  love.  His  arms  tighten  round  her  slender  form;  his 
eyes  meet  hers. 

Far,  far  above  them  the  floating  moon  glides  on,  and 
through  the  idle  trees  a  wooing  breeze  comes  quickly, 
playing  with  her  sunny  hair  and  kissing  her  perfect 
mouth.  The  air  is  full  of  myst:c  sounds;  from  the  forest 
below  the  sad  belling  of  a  straying  deer  may  be  heard;  and 
to  the  lovers  there  comes  across  the  dew-bespangled  sw ard 
the  voice  of  one  calling: 

"  Dolores,  Dolores!     Come  in,  my  darlingl" 

It  ie  the  voice  of  Miss  Maturin,  and  it  reaches  them 
Iranght  with  fond  love  and  keenest  anxiety. 

"Yes,  yes:  we  must  go  in  indeed!"  says  Dolores.  "A 
pity,  tool"  she  sighs,  with  a  lingering  glance  cast  into  the 
dark  sweetness  of  the  autumn  night.  ''Good-night  to 
you,  dear  stars!"  she  cries,  with  a  little  childish  wave  of 
her  slender  fingers  toward  the  heavens.  "  A  fair  good- 
night to  all  this  lovely  world  I" 

Still  fora  moment  she  lingers,  smiling  a  soft  adieu,  then 
slips  her  hand  within  her  lover's  arm,  aud  P;OC\S  with  him 
across  the  flowering  grauea. 


Reasons  why 


you  should 


obtain  a  Cat- 


alogue of  our 


Publications 


A  postal  to  us  will 

place  it  in  your 

hands 


I.  You  will  possess  a  comprehen- 
sive and  classified  list  of  all  the  best 
standard  books  published,  at  prices 
less  than  offered  by  others. 

a.  You  will  find  listed  in  our  cata- 
logue books  on  every  topic  :  Poetry, 
Fiction,  Romance,  Travel,  Adven- 
ture, Humor,  Science,  History,  Re- 
ligion, Biography,  Drama,  etc.,  be- 
sides Dictionaries  and  Manuals, 
Bibles,  Recitation  and  Hand  Books, 
Sets,  Octavos,  Presentation  Books 
and  Juvenile  and  Nursery  Literature 
in  immense  variety. 

3.  You  will  be  able  to  purchase 
books  at  prices  within  your  reach  ; 
as  low  as  10  cents  for  paper  covered 
books,  to  $5.00  for  books  bound  in 
cloth  or  leather,  adaptable  for  gift 
and    presentation   purposes,   to   suit 
the  tastes  of  the  most  critical. 

4.  You    will    save    considerable 
money  by  taking  advantage  of  our 
SPECIAL  DISCOUNTS,  which  we  offer 
to  those  whose  purchases  are  large 
enough  to  warrant  us  in  making  a 
reduction. 


HURST   &   CO.,    ^Publishers, 
395,  397,  399  Broadway,    New  York. 


Harry 

Castlemon 

Books 


The  popularity  enjoyed  by  Harry 
Castlemon  as  a  writer  of  interesting 
books  for  boys  is  second  to  none.  His 
works  are  celebrated  everywhere  and 
in  great  demand.  We  publish  a  few  of 
the  best. 


BOY  TRAPPERS 

FRANK  AT  DON  CARLOS   RANCHO 

FRANK  BEFORE  VICKSBURG 

FRANK  IN  THE  WOODS 

FRANK  ON  A  GUNBOAT 

FRANK  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

FRANK,  THE  YOUNG  NATURALIST 


Sent  to  any  address,  postage  paid,  upon  receipt 
of  Fifty  Cents. 

We  send  our  complete  catalogue  free. 

flORST  &  CO.,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


Works  of 


J.T. 

Trowbridge 


Here  is  an  author  who  is  famous — 
whose  writings  delight  both  boys  and 
girls.  Enthusiasm  abounds  on  every 
page  and  interest  never  grows  old. 
A  few  of  the  best  titles  are  given : 

COUPON  BONDS. 
CUDJO'S  CAVE. 

THE  DRUMMER  BOY. 

MARTIN  MBRRYVALE,  HIS  X  MARK. 
FATHER  BRIGHT  HOPES. 
LUCY  ARLYN. 

NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD. 
THE  THREE  SCOUTS. 

Price,  postage  paid,  for  any  of  the 
above  books,  Fifty  Cents. 

Have  You  Seen  Our  Complete  Catalogue? 
Send  For  It 

HURST  &  CO.      Publishers     NEW  YORK 


BIOGRAPHICAL 
LIBRARY 

Of  the  Lives  of  Great  Mc» 

A  limited  line  comprising 
subjects  pertaining-  to  the 
careers  of  men  who  have 
helped  to  mould  the  world's 
history.  A  library  is  incom- 
plete without  the  entire  set. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN,  LIFE  OF — American  .v  tatesman  and 
Discoverer  of  Electricity. 

CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS,  LIFE  OF — Discoverer  of  Amer- 
ica. 

DANIEL  BOONE,  LIFE  OF — Famous  Kentucky  Explorer 
and  Scout. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER,  LIFE  OF — American  Statesman  and 
Diplomat. 

DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAN  ORATORS — Who  Have  Helped 
to  Mould  American  Events. 

EMINENT  AMERICANS — Makers  of  United  States  History. 

JOHN  GUTENBERG,  LIFE  OF — Inventor  of  Printing, 

NAPOLEON  AND  His  MARSHALS — Celebrated  French  Gen- 
eral and  Commander. 

ORATORS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION  —  Whose 
Speeches  Ping  With  Patrio.ism. 

PAUL  JONES,  LIFE  OF — American  Naval  Hero. 

PATRICK  HENRY,  LIFE  OF — Distinguished  American 
Orator  and  Patriot. 

PHILIP  H.  SHERIDAN,  LIFE  OF — "Little  Phil";  Famous 
Union  General  During  the  Civil  War. 

WASHINGTON  AND  His  GENERALS — First  President  of 
the  United  States,  Revolutionary  Army  General  and 
Statesman. 


Any  book  mailed,  postage  paid,  upon  receipt  of  50c. 
Send  for  Our  Complete  Book  Catalogue. 

HURST  *  CO.     Publishers,     NEW  YOSK 


A    000122937     6 


